In Service, Love by sallysavestheday

In Service, Love

Read In Service, Love

It is Ohtar who tracks the habits of the guards for weeks and pinpoints the moments of opportunity; Ohtar who procures the disguise, who bribes the slave to prop the inner gates. Ohtar’s hands are the cup into which Isildur steps, the lever that lifts him over the outer wall. It is Ohtar who carries him, bloody and only half-conscious, through the streets of Armenelos, from hiding-place to hiding-place, and thence to Rómenna, with the fruit of Nimloth clutched in his battered hands.

Is is Ohtar who sits at the door of his sickroom, through the remainder of the autumn, through the long, punishing winter, and into the chill, clear spring. Ohtar fetches and carries: bandages and poultices and powders, sweet blossoms to freshen the festering air, water and blankets and lights. Ohtar’s voice sings low, always, in the background, as Elendil and Anárion maintain their grim watch. Ohtar’s hands keep Isildur’s armor polished, his sword bright and keen. Against all hope, perhaps, but he knows no other way to show his love for his bright prince, his brilliant lord.

When Isildur rises from his bed at last, it is for Ohtar that he calls.

Ohtar. Soldier. Esquire, conspirator, informal counselor. Close as a brother, yet a servant still. So utterly is he given over to his lord that he foregoes his name. It is enough to hear Isildur’s voice calling him with the particular resonance that is reserved for him alone. Always with gratitude, with trust, with a measure of love. Ohtar, as he stumbles out of the King’s House, bloody but triumphant. Ohtar, as the wave crests and the prow of the ship rises up and up and up, as everything they have loved founders behind them. Ohtar, in the robing room in Minas Ithil, as he waits to be crowned. Ohtar, as the Darkness whelms them at Dagorlad and the sky fills with flames.

Ohtar, as the bright Ring glitters in his hand: weregild, the greatest of prizes, most precious remembrance of what they have survived.

For the first time, there is no affection in Isildur’s voice. He is all complaint and suspicion: the Elves seek dominion, they must not be heeded. Their time is past, with Sauron destroyed. Isildur will lead them into the Age of Men. His hands carve the air with a new brutality. The beautiful thing on its fine chain shines and burns.

Ohtar hates it: the Ring. He cannot bear the changes in the lord he loves, and he knows without knowing that this ill-gained gift is to blame. They fall more and more into silence. Ohtar cannot sing when Isildur frowns so; he knows no tunes to beat back this sort of fear. Isildur ceases to name him; he points and scowls. Ohtar bows and obeys; he watches and listens, hopes, and – in secret, now – prays.

They are not what they were. But at the end it is still Ohtar, as the Orcs bear down at the edge of the river. There is no escape this time; no guard to bribe, no wall to climb, no wave to carry them safely away. Ohtar. Isildur’s voice is hoarse as he thrusts Narsil at him and orders him to flee. Ohtar. His bloodied fingers mark Ohtar’s cheeks as he kisses his forehead and turns him away.

The northlands swallow him for a year and more: Ohtar, the faithful, the Soldier. When he stumbles into Imladris with the sword in his hands, he is wraithlike, untethered, only his loyalty driving him on. Elrond’s guards reach for their weapons, but Valandil knows him; he springs forward to catch him before he can fall. His young hands are still soft, but his eyes are like his father’s: bold and intent. More importantly: kind.

Ohtar kneels. He offers the shards, the scabbard, his fealty, his love. Isildur’s last son embraces him; he speaks his true name and welcomes him home.