Thanksgiving by My blue rose

Chapter One: Hallow

“And when you offer a sacrifice of thanksgiving to the Lord, offer it of your own free will.” ~ Leviticus 22:29

7th of Ringarë, 3019^th year of the Third Age, Steward’s Reckoning:

The Sun was just beginning to rise as Aragorn son of Arathorn, King of Gondor and Arnor, stood on a southern foothill beneath Mount Mindolluin. The half dozen Citadel Guards that had come with him from the Tower stood nervously at the base of the ancient path Aragorn and Gandalf had discovered a week before his wedding last Loëndë. The Guards’ armor gleamed in the light, black surcoats fluttering in the chill late autumn breeze.

“Are you certain you wish to go alone, Sire? We could wait outside the High Hallow for you,” the tallest of the men implored.

Aragorn had been King for only seven months and his Guards were loath to leave him unattended in even the smallest of duties. He hoped that time would dampen their enthusiasm.

“It might surprise you, Captain, but I somehow managed to survive in the Wilds of the North for decades without your assistance,” he replied dryly.

“You should at least take a sword, Sire. You may borrow mine,” the Man responded, undaunted by his liege’s tone. He reached down to untie his sheath from his belt but Aragorn stayed him with a gesture.

“Nay, Amdir. It is forbidden to take weapons of war into the High Hallow, nor are there enemies on the way to warrant it.”

“If you say so, Sire,” Amdir replied unhappily. “We will remain here and await your return.”

Aragorn nodded and picked up his pack, adjusting it until it was placed comfortably on his back. It was heavy, nearly five stone, and he was glad that it was only about three leagues to the High Hallow near the top of the summit. He checked his waterskin hanging from his belt, and, without another word to his Guards, set off on the faint trail toward the top of the mountain.

He stopped at midmorning for a break.

The trail was composed of switchbacks and was steep and overgrown. He was close; about a quarter league ahead, Aragorn could see the ledge that, according to what he had read in the Archives, should be the entrance to the High Hallow. Looking down the slope far below him, the City’s towers appeared as distant white trees, and the Anduin a blue ribbon against the fallow brown fields of the Pelenor.

Taking a sip from his waterskin, Aragorn wondered what Faramir was doing. It had been his Steward that had reminded him of Eruhantalë. Long ago in the Second age, it had been one of three holidays called the Three Prayers to Eru that had been celebrated in Númenor of old. Three times a year the King or Queen of Númenor would ascend the Meneltarma, the holy mountain, and offer sacrifices to Eru on behalf of their people. When Númenor fell into darkness, the Kings had stopped this practice, and the Island was drowned not long after.

Aragorn had not known that Isildur and Anárion, while ruling in Gondor, had the High Hallow built on Mount Mindolluin and reestablished the holiday of Eruhantalë to fall on the day of last full moon in autumn.  However, since Eärnur, the last of the Kings of Gondor of the House of Anárion, had perished at the Witch-King’s hand in 2050^th year of the Third Age, observance of Eruhantalë had ceased. For it was decreed that none but the King and his heir may enter the High Hallow, nor may any weapons of war be brought inside, the punishment for both being death.

Faramir, who had been invaluable in searching the records in order to find out the historic duties of the King of Gondor and Arnor, had informed him when Eruhantalë was to fall this year.

“We have much to be thankful for this year. It seems appropriate to continue the tradition to demonstrate our gratefulness and devotion to Eru and the Valar,” Faramir had said.

His Steward was right. They had much to be grateful for. Still, he felt nervous for reasons he did not understand. He wished that Faramir or perhaps Gandalf could have joined him, had he not departed with the Hobbits two months past. But his forefathers had decreed that the King must go unaccompanied, so, shouldering his pack once more, he headed up the mountain alone.

It was just before midday when Aragorn found himself on the bare granite ledge that was the entrance to the High Hallow. He was above the treeline and the air was thin. It was strangely silent as he paused for a moment to regain his breath. No bird could be heard, only the soft rustling of the wind. He drew his cloak tight about him. While the walk had kept him warm, it was cold here, and the ledge was covered in a thin layer of snow. In another month it would be impassable.

The entrance to the Hallow was a doorway set into the mountain itself. It seemed an ordinary doorway, except it was a hand taller than was normally seen in Gondor. But then, like himself and most of the Northern Dúnedain, the Men of Númenor had been tall. He took off his pack, stretched, and walked to the edge of the ledge, squinting in the bright light.

He looked out at the Anduin Vale below. Off in the distance, Aragorn could discern the glint of sunlight upon water, and he realized it was the Sea. As cold as it was up here, the lands below were free of frost. He had forgotten how much warmer it was in the South. In the Wilds of the North he would have been buried in knee-high drifts by now.

Taking a deep breath to steady himself, Aragorn picked up his pack and went through the doorway. Inside was a short and narrow hall, only about two rangar across and three rangar long. The walls were rough cut, and it was clear that this was no natural cave. He made his way to the end of the hall where there were two columns, carved to look like trees. In between them, set into the wall in silver, was the device of the White Tree with seven Stars arrayed above it. Aragorn touched it briefly, wondering how the silver had remained untarnished, and realized it was made of mithril.

The door was spell-sealed, like the one in Moria had been. It would not open unless the password was spoken or powerful sorcery assailed it. Aragorn wondered if this door was Dwarf work too. Perhaps not; the Men of Númenor had been great workers of stone, as Minas Tirith and Orthanc attested. Aragorn spoke the words Faramir had found in an ancient manuscript in the Archives pertaining to the High Hallow.

“Valar valuvar ar nai Eru orava messë ilye.”

For a moment nothing happened, and then the door swung inward on silent, unseen hinges.

Aragorn found himself blinking rapidly, momentarily blinded. While the hall behind him had been dim, the chamber inside was brightly lit. Looking up, he saw that the room’s high ceiling had shafts cut into it, allowing the Sun’s light to illuminate it. That was not all they let in; Aragorn noted that the floor was wet and the room smelled like damp stone. He wondered how the chamber drained, for surely there would be a flood of water in here if did not.

This room was larger than the previous one. It was square, about six rangar to a side. In the center of the room was an altar of built of undressed marble, about waist high. The walls were the dark granite of the mountain and Aragorn gasped as he saw that they were carved in bas-relief.  

On the wall to his right were images of the Sun, Moon and Stars. On the wall to his left there were depictions of trees, flowers, horses, deer and other creatures. On the wall before him was a representation of what must have been Osgiliath in its glory, straddling the Anduin River with Minas Anor and Minas Ithil visible in the distance. Aragorn turned around so he could see what was on the wall with the door behind him.

On the wall to the left of the door was a map of the Star Isle. Above it was written in High Adûnaic, the ancient tongue of Númenor: “Remember Our Past Follies”. On the wall to the right of the door was a map of Gondor and Arnor, and above it was written in the same language: “Remember Our Hope for the Future.” Aragorn stared at the map of Númenor. He had seen similar maps in his youth in Imladris but such things were rare in Gondor. Most of those whom had survived the Downfall had desired to forget about their past, and much knowledge was lost.

Yet here was a reminder of where they had come from, preserved by their first Kings.

Shaking himself out of his musings, Aragorn approached the altar. Divesting himself of his pack, he placed it on the floor and opened it. He removed several fagots of wood and kindling, carefully arranging them on the altar. On top of them he placed several handfuls of wheat and barley from fields in Lamedon, as well as some of the choice fruits and vegetables from the Northern fiefs of Anórien. Over the offering he poured out two small flasks containing the first presses of wine and olive oil from the Southern fiefdoms in Anfalas and Dor-en-Ernil.

After saying a silent prayer of thanks for the bountiful harvest that they had sorely needed after the deprivations of the War, he doused the pile with a skin of naphtha. He took out his tinder box and was about to strike the flint with the steel when Aragorn jumped in surprise. The flint and steel striker fell to the floor with a clatter that sounded loud in the stillness of the chamber.

Someone was standing in the corner of the room opposite him.

Chapter End Notes

Glossary

“7th of Ringarë, 3019th year of the Third Age, Steward’s Reckoning”: November the 27 on the Gregorian calendar. 

Loëndë (Quenya): ‘Mid-Years day’. June 22nd on the Gregorian calendar.

Eruhantalë (Quenya): ‘Thanksgiving to God’.

Rangar (Quenya): A measure used by the Númenóreans and their descendants in Middle-earth. One ranga was defined as the length of the stride of a man walking at ease or 38 inches. A height of two rangar was conventionally referred to as 'man-high', meaning that the average height of a Dúnadan was 6 feet, 4 inches.

“Valar valuvar ar nai Eru orava messë ilye.” (Quenya): ‘The will of the Valar be done and may Eru have mercy on us all’.

Naphtha (English): A word that refers to a number of flammable liquids used since ancient times, normally made of crude oil.

Note: Eruhantalë really is one of Three Prayers to Eru celebrated in Númenor at the end of autumn and the High Hallow on Mount Mindolluin is a real place in the books. However, the idea that the holiday was continued in Gondor by Isildur and Anárion is my idea that probably stems from my love of all things Second Age. 

Chapter Two: Sacrifice

“For thou desirest not sacrifice; else would I give it; thou delightest not in burnt offering.                      The sacrifices of God are a broken spirit; a broken and a contrite heart, O God, thou wilt not despise.” ~ Psalm 51:16-17

7th of Ringarë, 3019^th year of the Third Age, Steward’s Reckoning:

The stranger was tall and noble, dressed in an indigo robe that fell to his ankles and belted with a white sash. Aragorn first though he was an Elf, for he was fair and his brown hair was long and braided. But there was something that told him this was no Elf, and he found he could not look this person in the face. He reminded Aragorn of when Gandalf had unveiled himself as the White of his Order. Aragorn’s hand went to his belt dagger and he took several steps back toward the door.

“Who are you, my lord?” If anyone should have the title of lord it was this person.

“I have many names, Child.” his voice was a rich tenor that possessed a melodious quality and he spoke in Quenya, the High Tongue of the Elves that Aragorn had learned in his youth. “Not unlike like yourself, yes? But perhaps the name that suits me best is Eru Ilúvatar’s Vicegerent in Eä.”

“Manwë Súlimo, the Elder King.” Aragorn whispered, a frisson of fear running down his spine. He knelt on the damp floor, his eyes on the Vala’s feet, which were barefoot.

“Indeed, Child. Though in truth, I am more Steward than King.”

The Elder King walked toward him and Aragorn closed his eyes and clenched his fists, not giving in to the impulse to bolt. Where would he go? Although the door remained open behind him, even if he made it through, Aragorn doubted there was any place in Arda he could run from the High King of the Valar. He felt a warm hand on his chin and flinched. His head was gently forced upward, but Aragorn kept his eyes tight shut.

“Be at peace, Child. I mean you no harm. Open your eyes.”

He did as he was bid and found himself staring into the Elder King’s azure eyes. His mouth went dry as felt his very fëa being examined. He himself had some ability to look into the hearts of Men that he had inherited from his Elvish ancestors, but this was different than anything he or any Mortal could do. It was one of the strangest sensations he had ever felt and Aragorn grit his teeth, afraid to look away. Abruptly, the Elder King removed his hand and the queer sensation ceased.

The Elder King smiled and seemed pleased. Aragorn released a breath he had not realized he had been holding. He found he could now look at the Elder King’s face, fair as any Elf’s, and wondered why he could not before. Staring up at Eru’s Vicegerent, he was aware of how incredibly ancient the one before him was, and Aragorn had been raised amongst Elves. For all of his eighty eight years, Aragorn suddenly felt very young.

It was little wonder Lord Manwë called him child.

“Nay, I do not call you Child because of your age, though you are indeed young by the reckoning of my kind. I call you Child because it is what you are. You are of the Eruhíni, a Son of Lord Eru.”

Aragorn was not surprised to find that the Elder King seemed to be able to read his thoughts. He shivered slightly. The damp floor he was kneeling on had soaked his trousers and the room had the chill of a cave.

“Stand up, Child.” The Elder King said.

Aragorn hesitated. It seem inappropriate and perhaps impious to stand before such a person.

“My lord, I and my fathers have always feared the Valar,” he replied, also in the High Tongue, uncertain how to explain what he felt.

“’Tis no great thing to be feared, Child. Even our enemies do that. You are a mighty King of Men, are you not? Would you have your subjects fear you?”

Aragorn reflected for a moment before he replied, shaking his head.

“Nay, my lord. I would rather they serve me out of love or, failing that, out of a sense of obligation to the King of the realm.”

“Indeed, Child. Do you think me and my brethren so different? Would you make one of your subjects kneel on a wet floor when they are already shaking with cold?”

Aragorn felt himself flush with embarrassment. To his surprise, the Elder King of Arda held out his hand and helped pull him to his feet.

There was silence between them as the Vala regarded him, a small smile on his face. Aragorn shifted uncomfortably under the Elder King’s gaze. There had been no record in the Archives of something like this occurring in the Hallow. He felt reasonably certain that at least one of his ancestors would have included an account of such an encounter, if they had indeed happened in the past. Aragorn could not help but feel that the King of Aman had better things to do with his time than talk to him.

“Nay, Child. This is indeed as important as anything I might do with my time. I am King of Aman, but am I not also King of Endórë? Should I not be concerned with proceedings here?”

Aragorn nodded, feeling a little foolish.

“You have a question you wish to ask me,” the Elder King stated.

“Why are you here, my lord?” he asked with some trepidation.

“Because I wished to speak with one whom is King of Gondor and Arnor, Child.” The Elder King sounded amused.

Aragorn’s eyebrows rose. Why had none of his forefathers mentioned this in the records?

“If I did not speak to your forefathers it was because I did not think it necessary, Child. But that is not to say that when they offered their sacrifices here they were always as alone as they supposed. Neither were the Kings of Númenor when they made their offerings upon the Meneltarma.”

Aragorn eyed the Elder King skeptically. “Yet you think it necessary to speak to me, my lord?” he said doubtfully.

“You find that hard to believe, Child?”

“Aye, my lord,” Aragorn said simply. To his surprise, the Elder King laughed.

“Your humility becomes you, Child. Yet I am indeed here to speak with you.”

An icy wind blew in through the doorway and Aragorn shivered, his fur-lined cloak unable to ward off the chill brought on by his damp trousers. He would need to light a fire and warm himself soon. He had seen several Men perish in the Wilds, beyond even his aid, when they had become wet in the dead of winter. The Elder King looked at him, concerned, and Aragorn knew he had discerned his thoughts. He looked at his feet, feeling ashamed at his weakness.

“’Tis not weakness, Child. One does not criticize silver for not being gold. You have limitations, yes, but you also have strengths and abilities that even I do not.”

The Elder King looked rueful as he spoke next. “I ask your forgiveness, Child. It has been many yéni since I have spoken to one of the race of Men. It did not occur to me that such a thing might not be only uncomfortable, but also dangerous for you.”

With that, the Elder King waved his hand negligently and Aragorn felt his trousers become dry almost instantly. He shuddered again. Not with cold this time, but at the seemingly careless display of power. He felt the desire to flee once more. Instead, he bowed, placing his right hand on his heart in the Elvish fashion.

“Thank you, my lord. No forgiveness is required for no offence was intended.” He hesitated a moment before continuing. “Why did you wish to speak with me, my lord?”

“I wish to know why you have chosen to reinstate this tradition, Child?” The Elder King gestured at the altar and the offering upon it, still waiting to be set aflame.

“I thought that was obvious, my lord.”

“Perhaps, but I wish to hear your reasoning.”

“I do this because it is the duty of all nations to acknowledge the providence of Lord Eru, to obey His will, to be grateful for His benefits, and humbly to implore His protection and favor. As King, I must do this for my people. Returning to this tradition seemed to me a good way of fulfilling this duty.”

The chamber was suddenly filled with a flash of light that was so bright Aragorn was momentarily blinded. The offering on the altar burst into flames, hot enough that he felt it from where he stood three rangar away. He ducked into a defensive crouch, instinctively drawing his dagger. He rose when realized that what he had just seen was lighting striking the altar through one of the shafts in the ceiling. Feeling foolish, he returned his dagger to its sheath and turned to the Lord of the Air, wondering why he had done such a thing.

“’Twas not I who did that, Child. It appears Lord Eru has found your sacrifice agreeable and has decided to demonstrate a sign of his favor.” The Elder King sounded pleased.

Aragorn watched the fire consume the offering, a frisson of awe coursing through him. 

Chapter End Notes

Glossary

Vicegerent (English): A person exercising delegated power on behalf of a sovereign or a person regarded as an earthly representative of God, both definitions being true in the case of the Elder King.

Fëa (Quenya): The spirit or soul of an incarnate, normally housed in a body.

Eruhíni (Quenya): ‘Children of Eru’. 

Endórë (Quenya): ‘Middle-earth’.

Note: Aragorn’s response to Manwë is a direct quote from George Washington: “It is the duty of all nations to acknowledge the providence of Almighty God, to obey His will, to be grateful for His benefits, and humbly to implore His protection and favor.” 

Chapter Three: Gift Offering

“Offer unto God a sacrifice of thanksgiving and pay thy vows unto the most High.”~ Psalm 50:14

7th of Ringarë, 3019^th year of the Third Age, Steward’s Reckoning:

“Would you give Him my thanks for this favor?” Aragorn asked, feeling as if he should be kneeling, wet floor or no.

“That is not necessary. Our Lord Eru hears your prayers as readily as He hears mine, Child.”

Aragorn nodded and, closing his eyes, gave a brief prayer of thanks. He felt the Elder King place a hand on his shoulder. Opening his eyes, Aragorn managed not to flinch or back away, his back rigid. The Elder King frowned.

“I spoke truly when I said I meant you no harm, Child. Be at peace.” He said the last words as a command, and he squeezed his shoulder before removing his hand.

Aragorn felt himself relax as his fear left him. He stared at the Elder King, wondering if he had ensorcelled him.

“I have not bewitched you, Child. I am merely preventing you from feeling your own fear. Your will is still your own.”

“Thank you, my lord,” he said quietly. “But I would ask you to allow me to experience my fear.”

The Elder King looked uncomprehendingly at him. “Why do you want such a thing, Child?”

“Because it is mine own. True courage is not the absence of fear, but doing what must be done even when you are terrified.”

The Elder King was silent for several long moments; then he sighed.

“You are wiser than I in this matter, I deem. I must once again ask for your forgiveness for my thoughtlessness, Child. I should not have intervened in such a manner without your permission. Know that I only did so because I wished you unafraid in my presence.”

“I understand and am grateful, my lord. As I said before, no forgiveness is required for no offence was intended.”

Aragorn felt his fear return to him, but it seemed lesser than it had been before.

“What do your people think of their new King?” Lord Manwë asked. “It has been a thousand years since they last had one, has it not?”

“Yes, my lord.” Aragorn was surprised by the question and that the Elder King was aware of how long it had been.

“Why do you think me unconcerned with the fates of Men, Child? Are they not also under my purview as King of Arda?” The Vala chided gently.

“Yes, my lord. Forgive me.” Aragorn felt embarrassed that he had always assumed the Elder King to be mostly concerned with Elves.

“A wise man has said, no forgiveness is required for no offence was intended,” the Vala replied, wryly.

Half-smiling, Aragorn nodded his head and considered the question for a moment before he replied.

“Most of my people rejoice that their King has returned to them. The common folk have particularly longed for my coming, and all of the Lords of the Realm have acknowledged my authority and have sworn their fealty to me. Yet…some of the minor lords contest my claim and continue see me as a usurper from the North.”

“What have you done to them for their rejection of your claim, Child?”

Aragorn shrugged. “I have done nothing to them, my lord. They are free to believe what they will as long as it harms none. As long as they give deference to me in public I care not what they say about me in private.”

“A wise decision, but is it one you might come to regret?”

“Perhaps, but I must do what I think is right.”

There was silence in the chamber, the only sound came from the crackling fire on the altar.

“Is there anything else you wish to speak with me about, my lord?” Aragorn asked.

The Elder King smiled. “I have found what I was looking for. Truly, I wished to know what kind of Man the King of Gondor and Arnor is. Now that I know you are indeed worthy of the Throne of your forefathers, I wish you to have this, Child.”

He pressed something small and warm into Aragorn’s hand. It was a ring. It was made of mithril and on it was the image of an eagle with its wings outstretched. Its claws griped a sapphire of the deepest blue. It was beautiful; the eagle was so detailed that he could trace the individual feathers on its wings.

“Why are you giving this to me, lord?”

“So that when you tell those whom dispute your authority about our conversation, you have some evidence to prove it indeed took place.” The Elder King sounded amused once more.

Aragorn frowned. He had been intending to tell no one of this conversation, save perhaps his wife and Faramir.

“King Elessar,” The Elder King said solemnly. Aragorn felt himself stand straighter at his tone.

“I wish you to have this ring as a token that I and my fellow Valar recognize you as the rightful King of the Reunited Realm.” he turned to look at the smoldering offering on the altar. “And we are not the only ones, Child.”

“Thank you, my lord.” sliding the ring onto his fourth finger, Aragorn was unsurprised to find that it fit perfectly.

Looking up, he realized that he was alone in the chamber once more. He stood there watching the fire on the altar smolder for some time, fingering his new ring. Aragorn then retrieved his pack from where he had placed it on the floor. Shouldering it, he took one last look at the room before he sealed the door.

Standing on the ledge that formed the entrance to the Hallow, once more, Aragorn looked out at the lands below. At the White City, brilliant in the midday Sun. At the shimmering ribbon that was the Great River. At the fields ravaged by war only months ago, now rich and fallow or green with cover crop. And at the Sea, sparkling in the distance like gold threads broidering a blue cloak.

“I am grateful for all that has been given to me,” he said softly, and began the descent down the mountain.