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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