My Sword Weeps
by Agape4Rivendell
A sequel to
My Sword Sings
Chapter 1: Grievous News
Smoke hid the rafters of the old inn. It had been a long time since the
man had visited it. Almost an age, it seemed. Yet, his table waited for
him. ‘Do others fear to sit here?’ he wondered absently. He took a swig
from his pint, sat back, and perused the patrons. ‘They all look the
same as when I was here last, what twenty years ago?’ Drawing upon his
pipe, he placed his feet upon the chair opposite, prepared for a long
night.
The one he waited for was one to be – tardy - once in awhile. Though he
knew he would be reprimanded severely if he said such aloud. ‘Nay,’ he
thought, never severely, for after the biting remark, a smile would
break from that beloved bearded face and they both would laugh. ‘I
should come here more often; news is frequently faster to find its way
to this door than to one of my own.’
A shout awakened him. He stood, took two long steps forward, and hugged
the wizard tightly. “You have been missed, Mithrandir! Come, sit with
me.” He pushed a chair out, waving to the fat barkeep all the while.
When his signal was answered, he sat opposite the old man and waited.
The wizard drew out a long pipe, filled the bowl, then lit it.
Finally, he sat back in his chair and drew a long puff on it. The man
waited patiently. ‘Never rush a wizard,’ he had learned many years ago.
His eyes closed almost completely. It looked like the wizard was
planning to keep him waiting. Well, he would show him how well he had
learned to wait.
Butterbur came over with the wizard’s pint, placed it in front and
waited for his tip. The man smiled. Mithrandir just took another two or
three puffs and the man was forced to tip the barkeep himself. When
Butterbur left them, he sat back again, put his feet up on the table
and waited..
“Aragorn, have you brought any of your men with you?” Mithrandir asked
quietly.
“I have not. Your message only stated that you needed to see me on
a grave matter. I deemed it unnecessary to pull men from their duties.”
“And right you were. This is a task that only you can carry out.”
The wizard was silent for another few moments, fingering his staff.
Aragorn knew that nervous gesture meant whatever the reason for his
summons, it was indeed grave.
“Can you be ready to travel first thing in the morning?”
“I can. I can travel even now. Though I have not yet supped. Would you
like to join me? I have a small study reserved for us.”
“Let us go there, then. I have much to tell you; things that others can
not hear.”
Butterbur had the table set already and Nob carried in their meal even
as they walked towards the room. Aragorn smiled. He liked Butterbur's
new serving lad; always seemed ready and willing to help, yet silent as
a tomb. He tipped Nob well and closed the door upon the boy's
retreating back.
Aragorn had discovered that Mithrandir seemed to have adopted some
Hobbit habits – like expecting to eat before discussing anything of
import. So they ate and Aragorn kept silent.
At last, Mithrandir sat back and relit his pipe. “I have some
grievous news, Aragorn.” He puffed again and thought for a moment.
“What was the last news from Gondor or Rohan that you heard?”
“In Rohan – Théoden’s sister was to be wed, rumours tell of
Saruman
trading for Rohirric horses, and winter hit Helm’s Deep hard.” He
scrubbed his chin, tilting his chair onto its back two legs. “The news
from Gondor is old. The sad news of Finduilas’ death still rocks that
land. I have heard nothing else.”
Mithrandir’s face turned a pale white. “You have heard naught of
Denethor?”
“I have heard nothing specific. What news have you heard?”
He stood and strode to the fireplace, his back turned to the man.
“Denethor is dead, Aragorn. Killed by an orc blade.”
Aragorn’s chair crashed forward. He shook his head in dismay. “It
cannot be. What battle and where?”
“‘Twas no battle; it was a trap. At least that is the rumour that
goes about. Returning from Théodwyn’s troth pledge, he was
waylaid on
the Great West Road. And all his company.”
Aragorn lowered his head, then brought it up sharply. “Who was in his
company? Surely Boromir is not… and the Lady Indis?”
“Arciryas, Master Healer and Indis’ husband, was also killed in the
attack along with two full companies of the finest of Gondor’s
warriors. Faramir and Boromir, along with Indis, had remained behind in
Edoras.”
“I knew and loved Arciryas. He tended me many times, during my stay
in Ecthelion’s army. He will be missed. My heart grieves for the Lady
Indis.”
“It will grieve further when I tell you the rest of my news – and – the
reason for my sending for you.”
Maddeningly, the old man relit his pipe. Aragorn stood and stepped
towards the window. “You bring news even more terrible than this?”
“I do. Please, sit. This news is indeed dreadful.
Aragorn sat, completely ill at ease, wondering what could be worse.
