2. Family
"You have mud on your nose." Arwen looked up, and shifted
to put the morning sun behind the tall figure who addressed her.
"And you are the most pristine-looking personage I have seen in a week," she
replied, surveying spotless boots and the new spring cloak of forest grey that
covered strong shoulders and loose dark hair. Her own hair was tightly braided
and coiled about her head, and her trousers, which had begun their career a
mild shade of grey-violet, had black mud ground deep into their knees. Her sheepskin
vest had fared better; it was black to begin with. Elrohir laughed and shook
back his hood, letting a sudden breeze untidy his hair and whistle in his ears.
"I came straight from home," he said to his sister.
"And have not yet had time to get into trouble…"
"And have messages that Aranarth will want to hear. Is he in the Angle, do you
know?"
Arwen pulled her brows together, making a swift calculation. "I think not,"
she answered. "He is making his tour of the standing companies, and has extra
business at Fornost this year. You may be able to catch up with him there."
"Luckily, my messages are not so urgent that I may not stop and talk to you,"
said Elrohir, squatting down beside Arwen and taking a handful of beans from
the pail at her elbow. Arwen looked amused as the elegant cloak trailed unregarded
in the dirt. "How goes the planting?"
Arwen turned back to her task, poking the ground with her finger, dropping in
bean seeds, and lightly brushing the soil back over the holes. "Well enough.
Hiri and I work long hours. Mareth has had a hard pregnancy; her grief takes
its toll. Old Súldis is indominable, but cannot work the fields."
"And there is no one else?"
"Taedan's brother has been here, but his own farm suffered from the fever, too.
Hands are short everywhere this spring."
"I am surprised Mareth has not abandoned the place."
"Hiri," Arwen said briefly, by way of explanation. "If Hiri is recruited to
the rangers this summer and Mareth bears a girl-child, then I will not be surprised
if she does abandon the farm." She paused, glancing away toward the Mitheithel.
"She would go north. There are rumours of resettling Fornost."
"No. Aranarth intends to restore the fort somewhat to suit the rangers' needs,
but there will be no families there. Fornost is not a place to raise children.
Besides, Sister mine," continued Elrohir, a twinkle suddenly pushing past the
seriousness in his grey eyes, "though I understand well Mareth's sentiment,
I think most of the Dunedain will be loath to leave the Angle now. They value
too much the friendship and charity – not to mention the green thumb –
of a certain Elf who lives in the vicinity."
"It is not charity!" Arwen flared, dropping her beans noisily back into the
bucket. "Comradeship, perhaps. But the Dunedain give back as much as we give
them: news and rumour, policemanship, population counts, choice trade in leathers
and furs, all in exchange for some medicines of which we have plenty and a few
bits of Elf-sewn cloth!"
"Yes, dear heart!" Elrohir exclaimed, rocking back on his heels. "Truly, I value
these people even as you do. Have I not proven so?"
Arwen chuckled, sighed, and picked up her work. "Aye, full well indeed. I am
sorry. There are some in Imladris disconcerted by our antics, and I fear
I've grown defensive of the time I spend here."
Elrohir's eyes gentled again. "Father does not mind, at least. He worries a
little … a strange-flavoured worry that I cannot make out … but
he will never forbid our errantry. He loves Men, too. "
"Of course he does."
The siblings worked quietly for a while, deft and graceful, sowing the field
of a Dunedain woman whose husband had been weakened by Orcish poison and slain
by fever short months later. Robins chirped and warbled nearby. Elrohir's mount,
a handsome bay mare who was sweet and docile as a lamb to her master but bit
and stomped at everyone else, wandered along the edge of the woods, nibbling
at the bushes.
"I do think it fair to point out," said the older Elf finally, finishing his
row and making a show of standing and fastidiously wiping his hands, "that Father's
affection is not in the same league as yours. Superb specimen of beneficence
and magnanimity though he be, only you would wilfully spend hours wallowing
in rain-soaked topsoil for the sake of a secondary vegetable crop."
Elrohir watched his sister a moment longer in silence as she, with all the concentration
of a master artist, poked holes in the ground for bean seeds. Finishing her
row in turn, she rose elegantly and lifted her arm as if to gesture at the farmhouse
beyond, moving in at the last instant to smear her brother's nose, cheekbone
and one delicate ear with a beautiful black line of springtime mud.
The Elf yowled, scooped up a handful and pitched it squarely at his sister,
who was already running. She took the volley complacently, but before she could
retaliate, Elrohir was heading for the pond. He shed his cloak as he ran, and
then gave an astonishing leap, pulling off both boots in mid-air. For a moment
Arwen was afraid he would forget the Mannish codes of modesty and shed the rest
of his clothing, but he only took another joyous bound and hurtled into the
water.
Intensely happy of a sudden, Arwen speedily discarded her own boots and vest,
then speared through the air. She cleanly cut the surface of the pond, but kicked
back her legs hard at the last moment, sending a terrific splash on top of her
surfacing brother. He grabbed for her ankle and missed, but then surged forward,
pushing a wave in front of him. Arwen shot downward, revelling in the chilly
water near the bottom. She flipped on her back and gazed up at the dancing plates
of light, her skin tracking Elrohir's whereabouts by pressure and current. The
other Elf dove, and Arwen promptly resurfaced. After a lengthy moment Elrohir
reappeared floating on his back at the other side of the pond, spouted water
into the air and elaborately crossed his arms behind his head. Arwen snorted
– a sound at odds with her lovely features –, but let her brother
lie, and glided luxuriously back toward the bank. She sat in the shallows with
her legs stretched out in front of her and began scrubbing at her filthy knees.
"Lady Arwen! Lady Arwen!" The brief peace was broken by an urgent voice and
the sound of running footsteps. The siblings both looked up sharply. Arwen rose
and Elrohir flipped over and swiftly scissored his way to the shore. A boy,
near twelve years old, ran up to them, wide-eyed and panting. Accustomed to
Arwen, but utterly unprepared to react to a sopping Elf-lord rising from his
pond, he was momentarily speechless.
"What is it, Hiri?" Arwen coaxed.
He sketched an awkward bow to Elrohir, then turned to the lady. "Mareth's time
has come … She is in the house with Súldis … She asks for
you," the boy blurted between breaths.
"The child is coming?" exclaimed Arwen, astonished, but already moving toward
the house in reaction to Hiri's urgency. She turned what she knew of human pregnancy
over in her mind. "It has been scarcely more than eight months! The midwife
is still away in the south!"
"Where?" asked Elrohir.
"I do not know. Bruinaith, I should think."
"Yes," Hiri confirmed, "Iurwen spent the winter with my aunts there."
"Iurwen," Elrohir repeated, and whistled sharply. His bay pricked her ears and
cantered over from her patch of grass. Quick as a flash, Elrohir caught Arwen's
hand and kissed her cheek. The siblings exchanged one long look, then Elrohir
leapt up on the horse's back. He tossed them a jaunty grin, turned and sped
off, swooping down to grab his cloak and boots as he passed the pond.
"Well," said Arwen with a small huff, "that is one less worry!" She smiled reassuringly
at the boy, hiding her discomfort easily. Elvish pregnancies lasted a full year,
and the mother always knew exactly when to expect the birth. This shaky timing
and sudden franticness unsettled her more than Hiri should have cause to suspect.
They continued swiftly toward the house, but once at the doorstep briefly halted,
both somewhat shy of what they might find inside. Berating herself, Arwen knocked
and, at a word from within, softly opened the door. The front room, which served
as kitchen and living area, was empty, but the door to the ajoining room was
open, and she could see Mareth sitting on the bed, one hand grasping the bedpost.
"I shall be with you soon," she called out, stepping swiftly into the room,
and then, more softly, "One moment, lad," to Hiri. She reached her pack, tucked
on a low shelf in the corner by the hearth, and Hiri, understanding, withdrew.
Quickly she exchanged her wet clothes for a spare skirt and tunic, dumped the
soggy pile next to the bench outside the door, then re-entered, Hiri trailing
this time in her wake.
Old Súldis, who was blind and afflicted with palsy, was nonetheless energetically
scrabbling through a small linen chest in the corner and showering Mareth with
a sing-song stream of encouraging words. Noting the presence of the pair without
turning around, she barked her orders. "Set water to boil, lad; lots of it;
and make a pot of tea with the herbs in the painted tin above the hearth. Pity
we haven't any wood left to chop."
Mareth chuckled, then gasped. Arwen, her first rush of anxiety displaced by
sympathy and concern, hastened to her side, her skirt fluttering behind her.
"The little one will not wait," said the woman, smiling wanly and grasping Arwen's
outstretched hands. "The midwife is hours away, but I had no warning at all."
She looked into the Elf's eyes and steadied her breath.
"What do you need?" asked Arwen, filling her gaze and voice with calm reassurance.
"I … Hands," said Mareth. "Súldis' are not strong anymore. I need
… I am sorry … I know it is not usual…" Arwen sat on the bed,
one arm about Mareth's shoulders. Her body was still and strong, awaiting its
orders, but her mind, briefly stilled by pity, was suddenly pitched once more
into turmoil as their isolation came home to her. What does she ask me to
do? I cannot birth a child, any child, let alone a mortal!
Nay. I am the only one here who can.
But it was not usual. Elvish births were intimate rituals, and secluded. The
infant's father alone was present to aid and to witness, and it was his task
to help his wife, to clean the babe and put it to its mother's breast. This
private sharing was deemed to complete the circle between conception and birth
and forge a bond between the child and both its parents. An Elf's birthplace,
too, was sacred; a source of safety and clarity. It was odd to think of a baby
coming into the world under the cramped roof of this tiny farmhouse in the midst
of the wilderness.
The taboo against Arwen's witnessing a baby's delivery was strong in her mind,
but she pushed it fiercely aside. We all of us have our strange codes of modesty,
but they are merely codes, not laws of Nature. Incongruously, her grandmother's
words surfaced in her memory: When necessity demands, we change. Or we fade.
Necessity demanded now, but at the very back of her troubled thoughts another
impetus softly scratched: curiosity. Arwen tightened her grip on the pregnant
woman's shoulder. "You have my hands," she promised Mareth, "and my help." Súldis
teetered over to the bed carrying an armload of towels and sheets and smiled
at the pair of them, her teeth showing white in the wizened face. "And my experience,"
said the crone. "Don't worry, lamb; I've done this before."
***
It was like nothing Arwen had ever thought to experience. Súldis, true
to her word, gave serenely precise commentary from her rocking-chair by the
bedstead; Hiri clattered nervously in the kitchen; but Arwen's world, from noon
until nightfall, was invaded by alien colour and scent, and presence of pain
she could neither understand nor stop. Time's passage throbbed foreignly in
her mind. And then she was holding in her hands a small, helpless, astonishing
creature, piteously mewling, but blessedly alive.
Even as the babe gave its first cry, she heard the dim clatter of hooves outside.
Two horses came to a stop some distance from the house. Elrohir! she
thought in blurred relief, but she never saw him. One person dismounted, and
the other horse immediately galloped away to the West. Coward, she thought,
then bit back her frustration. It was hardly fair. Moments later Iurwen entered
the farmhouse, a tall, strong woman with iron grey hair braided down her back
and a bag slung over her shoulder. She rushed to Mareth and kissed her brow,
then hastily scrubbed her hands in the basin Hiri had brought in.
Arwen relinquished the child and the midwife efficiently clipped the cord while
the Elf stood, suddenly deprived of her task and her charge, too weighted with
wonder to move. In short order Iurwen had the infant girl cleaned, wrapped in
soft cloth and placed in the tired mother's arms. Arwen looked at Mareth in
that instant and saw, with the truth of Elvish vision, new love spring into
existence, as strong and tender as any Elf-bond. "Arwen," said Mareth, and all
three women turned toward the slender immortal standing quietly at the end of
the bed. "Thank you."
Elrond’s daughter breathed and let her senses relax, then stepped forward
to join the circle formed by the others. Iurwen was studying her curiously now
that her initial single-minded haste was over. Súldis grinned at her
toothily. Arwen gave them a small smile before turning again to the child, surprised
by the tenderness welling up in her own breast. The creature was ugly, compared
with Elven infants: It was red and mottled and utterly bald; its eyes were screwed
tightly shut and it had no lashes. But as Arwen reached out and gently stroked
the baby’s palm, four fingers crowned with tiny, perfect nails curled
around her own.
“What is her name?” Iurwen wanted to know.
“Taewen.”
“After her father,” Súldis nodded, stating the obvious. But
then: “She’ll be a ranger, this one. Just look at her hands.”
The blind woman gestured, and Mareth raised startled, searching eyes to the
lined old face. Then the mother ducked her head, grazing Taewen’s brow
with her lips, and murmured, “Just see that your luck lasts longer than
his, little one. Oh, my Taedan, would that you could see her." Silence fell,
until Iurwen insisted upon taking the child to its cradle, helping Mareth into
a fresh shift and changing the bedclothes. Hiri came in, but was shooed out
again before too long, as the mother and child settled to sleep.
Hiri’s industry had produced a surplus of hot water, so Arwen took a pan
outside and slowly rinsed her hands and arms. Then she went to the edge of the
woods and found a small beech sapling, less than a year old, and carefully poured
the water near its base where the roots could find it without being overwhelmed.
She touched the tree lightly with her finger, softly spoke a word, and returned
to the house. The sounds within were peaceful; Mareth and Taewen slept, Iurwen
cleaned, Súldis hummed tunelessly from her rocker, and Hiri had disappeared
back to the barn. Unwilling to be alone with her thoughts just yet, Arwen went
inside and helped the midwife find food and bedding for the night.
Short days later Arwen sat on the wooden bench by the door, letting the warmth
of the afternoon sun seep into her bones. Soon she would rise and begin her
preparations to leave. Mareth and little Taewen were stronger, the house was
in order and the farm was ready to face the growing season. Hiri, more a man
every day, insisted he could tend the crops with occasional help from his uncle,
and Iurwen, who was kinder and shyer than her hectic arrival had led Arwen to
believe, expressed her readiness to stay on as well. Arwen, on the other hand,
badly needed to be home. Still, she waited, obeying the count of an internal,
unconscious marker of time.
Thus she heard, as she sat in the sun, the swift hoofbeats coming from the Northwest,
and saw Elladan's tall roan canter into the yard. "Elrohir is with the Chieftain.
But when he told me what had befallen you, I thought I should come." The eldest
of Elrond's children swung down and strode toward his sister, who met his outstretched
hands and enveloped him in a fierce, happy embrace.
Elladan at a glance was indistinguishable from his brother, but the elder twin
had a certain stillness about him that contrasted subtly with Elrohir’s
vigor. Now he gazed intently at Arwen, concern evident in his mild, serious
eyes. "I am well!" Arwen assured him. "I have been a little shaken; I will not
deny it; but I cannot regret what has befallen... Mother and child are both
in good health."
"That is well," said Elladan, still looking keenly at Arwen, but tucking her
hand into the crook of his arm and starting forward. "Take me to see them."
"Yes," Arwen agreed, "and then I will fetch my things and depart for home, for
truly, I do wish to be with Father just now."
"I will come with you," Elladan told her, "for I want to hear your tale." Arwen
shot her brother a smile. While Elrohir had fled from the farmhouse short days
before, perfectly in accordance with Elvish tradition, Arwen rather suspected
that Elladan harboured some envy for her unique experience.
"I have witnessed a miracle, to be sure," said Arwen, smiling a woman's smile,
as the pair entered the house.
"What a strange custom midwifery is," she said a short while later as she jumped
onto her horse's back, beginning a conversation that had occupied her mind for
days. "To have a stranger bound up in such an intimate, altering thing..."
“Not a complete stranger, I dare say," returned her brother. He clucked
softly to his horse and the animal began to walk. "And you must remember that
mortal men have not the innate skill of healing in their hands that Elven husbands
do. A midwife, being practiced, knows the troubles that arise during human births,
and will be deft where a nervous father is clumsy."
"That is true. I have been assured by all three women that this was a remarkably
easy birth, but it did not seem so to me."
Elladan cocked his head at the sky, intrigued by the patterns and practices
of mortal lives. He understood them better than anyone save Elrond, Arwen thought
fondly, recalling the easy rapport he had struck with Mareth and the real delight
with which he had held Taewen, whispering musically, just for her, words in
the High-tongue. Like Elrond, Elladan also was an instinctive teacher.
“Midwifery means more than skill of healing, I think," he continued
his earlier thought. "The fragile, chancy lives of Men – chased by illness
(as well you know!) and cut down by blows that you or I would rise from in a
twelveday – leave babes all too easily without families, unless,”
he paused musingly, catching his sister’s glance, “the family –
those who give care – are more than the mother and father who are bonded
to the child at birth. The midwife is part of the Dunedain family, in a way.
Nay, I should even say that the family stretches to the whole community. Their
interconnection is their security. And their solace.”
"The boy, Hiri, is example of that," Arwen conceded.
"So, too, is Arahael, after a slightly different fashion. Fortune favours Men
who forge alliances on large scales and small."
"Alliances, friendships and families," pondered Arwen, a wry smile tickling
at the corners of her mouth, "are hardly trivial to Elves…"
The grandson of Artanis laughed. "Certainly not. But Elves often delay in such
things. What is five hundred years of coyness when followed by an eternity of
convivial bliss?"
"Arwen!" called a voice from edge of the field. She turned to see Iurwen, who
had set off early that morning to hunt for goutweed, hurrying toward them along
the low dike. "You will come to the Summergate Gather, will you not? You would
be welcome there! After all you have done for us, you are practically family."
Under the gaze of the siblings the woman faltered and dropped her eyes. "If
I do not presume," she mumbled shyly.
"I will be honoured," said Arwen. She lifted her hand in farewell, and the two
Elves turned their steeds toward the mountains.
***
Notes:
- This is set in 2051. Aranarth has been the Chieftain of the Northern Dunedain
for 75 years. King Eärnur of Gondor recently went missing, and Mardil Voronwë
of the House of Húrin has taken charge as the first Ruling Steward. That's
probably the subject of Elrohir's news.
- The Angle: The region between the rivers Mitheithel and Bruinen, as postulated
by Michael Martinez at Suite 101.
- Arahael, Aranarth's son, was fostered in Rivendell.
- Artanis: Galadriel in warrior-princess mode. Well, sorta. Used here (a) because
it scans better and (b) to make a point.
- Goutweed, also known as angelica or wild celery, is good for all sorts of
things, including colds, coughs, colic, fever, rheumatism and, apparently, expelling
the afterbirth. I learned all about it at http://www.egregore.com/herbs/goutweed.html.
- As far as, "her whom few mortals had yet seen," goes, well, the hobbits were
misinformed. They really should have said, "her whom few mortals alive in the
year 3018 had yet seen." They said the same thing about Galadriel, and that's
just silly!
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