Finale: The Singing of a Song

    I think that I began this tale because Malron urged me to, and because I felt that some traces of the beginnings of my people should remain. I have seen fifty-three winters now, and I am old. Haldan and Mareth are thirty now, far older than I was when I first took leadership, and I think that I will soon give my people into their competent hands and fade into the past with Malron.
    There is so much I did not write of in this tale: some memories concerned Malron and me alone, some would have broken my heart to write of it, and some simply because there are too many memories best forgotten. In any case, there was no need for Haldan and Mareth to know of these memories. But I included all of importance, and all that would benefit my brother’s children. Even when they accused me of withholding some of the story, as they did when they were children by the fireside, I was adamant in this. They are children in the ways of sorrow, and I will keep them that way for as long as possible. Malron, too, said that they deserved to know at least of their mother’s death, for they were young, only five, when Janya moved on. I told him that we had both seen too much sorrow to pass it on, and eventually he agreed with me.
    There is so much that I will never truly write of—of how my brother-son Haldan and my brother-daughter Mareth grew up, of how Mareth became Captain of my warriors, of Janya’s death, of the long, arduous journey to Estolad and from there to the Forest of Brethil.
    I did not write of how Cullan became a steadfast friend, of Gelvar and Janya’s death, of how Kellan and I became comrades, of how I finally accepted my leadership of the Haladin. I will never write of how it took me so many years and tears to accept that Haldar and Haldad would no longer return to aid me. Nor will I write of the deep bond between Malron and I, nor of how we became one seamless whole. Those memories belong to us alone.
    Let it suffice that Cullan and I became friends, and that we grew to love each other well as father and daughter, for Cullan had always longed for a daughter and my father had fallen. He died protecting me to the last when an unexpected ambush from the orcs attacked us, but before he passed on, Kellan was able to tell his father that he loved him. Then Kellan, too, in memory of Cullan, swore himself as my guardian and that all of his issue would protect the descendants of Haldad. We burned Cullan’s body, as we did with so many others, then placed them in an urn. I swore to myself that I would one day lie with the intermingled ashes of those of my people that had fallen.
    Janya sickened of grief when Gelvar died, victim to a stray orc’s arrow. And when an illness struck my people, she left her body to join with Haldar. We burned her body and placed the ashes in the urn as well. We missed her very much, for the three of us had grown close to one another, and I think that it was for that reason that we devoted so much of our time to her children, Haldan and Mareth.
    But eventually I found that I could only care for one, because my duties to my people were too great. Mareth had grown very close to me and requested that she stay with me, and by then I felt that Haldan needed a man to have the raising of him. And so it came to pass that I gave Haldan over to Kellan for him to raise, and he has done a fine job, for Haldan is as honorable and courageous as I could have wished. Wisdom would soon follow. Haldan brought Kellan and I closer together, since I still maintained a close relationship with my brother’s son. Eventually, we found that we could mutually respect and like one another—as long as we did not have to live together. I did not think that Haldan could be in better hands, and when Kellan wed, his children swore to serve Haldan for all the days of their lives. As I predicted at his birth, Haldan looks very similar to Haldar, so much so that sometimes, when the pain is greatest, I cannot bear to see him and send him away. He looks exactly as my beloved brother did, youthful and confident, friendly and amiable.
    I have been told that Mareth looks exactly as I did, and I can believe that to a certain extent. Whenever I look at her face, I see in her the mixture of arrogance and pride that had been my bane, as well as the fire. But she does not have my icy detachment, nor my control, and though it may be cruel and arrogant to say this, she will never have the strength or wisdom to lead my people. She does not have the strength of will that I did, nor the determination and responsibility I always bore towards my people.
    Malron and I trained Mareth in the fighting arts, and she will one day bear my bow and Haldar’s dagger, when I have deemed her worthy of them, as Haldan will bear Haldad’s sword that I once bore. She came to me when she was sixteen, and I trained her. When she was twenty-seven, I had grown old and tired easily, and so I turned over the captaincy of my women warriors to her. For a time, I resented that I could no longer fight, but then I learned wisdom. I had seen fifty winters then, and had not yet learned to accept my eventual and nearing death. Nor had I known that Eru’s gift would give me the solace that I longed for, to be separated from my anguish and grief.
    It surprised me that it took her five long years of sweat and toil to grasp that which I learned in less than a year, but then she was younger than I had been when she first received instruction. Malron, however, told me that he thought that Tulkas had blessed me so that the people of Haldad would survive. Perhaps it is so; it is true enough that I often had an unusual strength of mind that my father and brother never had. In any case, there is no longer need for another like me, one to both lead the warriors as well as the people. There will be no more war, and if there is, duties can be split between more than one. When I led, there had been none other to take up the burden.
    The only thing that I regret is that there is no one to pass on our—Malron’s and mine—knowledge to, for Malron did not wish to wed and so did not continue his father’s line. Nor were there any worthy to learn the knowledge. If the Haladin ever wish to recover the Rules, then they must discover them for themselves. We did, however, have someone carve all of the rules into several stone tablets, and we have stored it in a wooden chest, to be buried with us when we die.
    The other instruction I wrote was that Haldad’s sword was to remain with the heir, while the dagger and bow would pass on to whichever daughter showed inclination for the fighting arts. I also wrote that we were to be buried upon the green hill where the ashes of my people reside, with the banner Janya made remaining with me. It is not a covetous act, but I simply feel that my banner is that—mine and mine alone, for it was my toil that earned it, and Bríani and Malron granted it to me, not to the Haladin. If my brother-son and my brother-daughter wish to raise another standard above the Haladin, let them earn their own or use the Hound of Haldad.
    They make a good pair, Haldan as leader of the Haladin and Mareth as leader of the women’s warrior company I started. I will be content to rest when my time has come, knowing that my people lie in good hands. I will, in fact, be relieved to leave this world.
    It is true that we—both Malron and I—no longer know the meaning of mirth or happiness, although there are still moments of joy for us, which is different from mirth and happiness. For me, there are no longer any fleeting emotions of pleasure, only satisfaction, responsibility, grief, and occasionally joy. And there is always the weariness. We will both be glad to lay our burdens to rest.
    If Malron and I had been plants, we would have been two trees intertwined together, for we can no longer tell where I end and he begins. I think that we will die together, and that they will bury us together, as we should have been born together. Too often we remember all that might have been or all that we might have prevented. It is a constant source of comfort for us that we are together and will always be, for I do not think that Eru, in his boundless mercy and wisdom, will separate us when we have moved on to a new existence.
    We have grown old now, Malron and I, and we have retreated into the past and ourselves, more to distance ourselves from this future than to try and escape our unavoidable death. Too often do we see Haldar instead of Haldan or myself instead of Mareth. Although we have not yet mistaken them with their parents, we are struck by their strong resemblance to Haldad’s children every day. And though we may forget so many other things, like what was for supper or where I laid my quill, we always remember the past and what it holds for us.
    I think that it was Malron who first broached this idea to me, that I write my tale. It was a tale of glory and honor, he reminded me, but also one of courage and sacrifice. He said that Haldan and Mareth should always remember from whence they and their people came, and when the twins showed interest, I took up a quill and ink in the hands that had once wielded a sword.
    Mareth asked me once if I resented her taking captaincy of the women’s company, and I thought at that time that I did. But I have grown wiser now, and I recognize that age, though it impedes my body, enhances the reach of my mind and my heart. I find that I do not resent age, only appreciate it, for time has taught me only wisdom. What matters the mastery of the sword when I could spend my time exploring my soul? Malron tried to teach me that when I was a young and impetuous fool, but one cannot understand such wisdom until one has experienced it, much as the rules of battle.
    Malron and I both know that Mandos will come for us soon, as he would have eventually come for us. After all, we both understand the Rules of the Master of Battles. We have been expecting him for a while, and though Haldan and Mareth bewail that we will die, for we raised them and guided their first faltering steps in leadership, we think that it is for the best. Better that the children of Haldar learn how to lead as I had done—with hardship and sorrow, and by learning to understand and respect their people, not ruling and ordering them. In any case, they will not face orcs for some time to come, nor will they be forced to face the travail and sorrow we did.
    Neither of us are filled with bitterness or anger that we will soon leave this world behind. Too many have regrets and fear Mandos, but we do not. We no longer know the meaning of happiness or mirth, and joy comes to us only occasionally. Nor are we grief-maddened young fools who seek death as only an escape. Rather, we are relieved for we can finally rest from our toils, although we regret that we will not see Haldan and Mareth again in life. But Haldar, Haldad, Arion, Janya, Gelvar, Cullan, my mother Mareth, and so many more loved ones wait for us beyond the halls of Mandos, and Haldan and Mareth will join us soon, as all men do.
    While we wait, we will write of our life and teach what we can, and we will remember the past. I recall that as a girl, I most feared to be forgotten, unremembered save for that I bore children. How ironic that now my twin brother Haldar will only be remembered as the “father of Haldan and Mareth” while it is I who live on in songs. But I no longer care for such things, nor care for glory, for it is fleeting and fickle. It took me long years of hardship and sorrow to learn that. It was after all of my loved ones from the past save for Malron had passed on that I recognized glory and renown for a shallow, pallid light. I have sung my song, and I have found it good. There remains only my brother and our love for one another, and that is all I truly wish for now in my old age.
    I am at peace.

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