Til Death Do Us Part
By Dwimordene 
dwimmer_laik@yahoo.com


Summary : A glimpse into the friendship of Halbarad and Aragorn just before 
Pelennor field. I always hated that Halbarad didn't get an honorable mention in 
that poem at the end of the chapter, so here's my tribute to a silent hero! 




It was quiet on the prow for the gulls sang not, and were but forlorn glimmers 
of white wheeling high against a darkened sky. Water rushed and foamed about the 
keel, seeming to bray defiance at the murk, but though the wind blew in their 
sails, all aboard were subdued. It was a watchful silence, heavy with a fearful 
anticipation that Halbarad understood only too well, having often endured it 
himself. Before any other battle, he would have moved from man to man, 
encouraging each in turn, comforting where necessary, lending what aid he could 
that they might fight the harder when the blows began. But not today. Today, he 
leaned against the railing at the prow of the ship, and stared out at the banks 
of Anduin as they passed, and his thoughts drifted as if upon the southern wind 
that bore them now towards Minas Tirith. Through some trick of his mind, the 
mail felt heavy upon his shoulders today, and the weight of the sword at his 
belt threatened to cause a list if he moved, and the Ranger smiled slightly to 
himself. Doubtless such illusions were simply a reflection of the knowledge that 
this was the last watch for him. The last battle. Soon he would never need wear 
such a costume again, and there was a sense of relief to be gleaned from that 
certainty, though that part of Halbarad which was merely mortal quailed. His 
eyes strayed to the standard that he had laid in, carefully furled still, with 
the rest of his gear. Soon it would be stained with the blood of Gondor's 
enemies… and also that of its defenders, but such was the way of war. And I have 
always known that this must be.

Even among the Dúnedain, foresight was not always reliable, and Halbarad was not 
gifted with its full measure, as Aragorn was. Nevertheless, he had learned to 
trust such premonitions as were granted him. And long ago, when his friendship 
with Aragorn had scarcely begun, it had come to him that his friend would 
outlive him. The circumstances of his death had remained ever hidden from him, 
save only that in the face of prior perils he had always known his time had not 
yet come. But now that sense of having been spared was gone, vanished like a 
wight in the noon-day sun from the moment that he had first heard Aragorn speak 
of the Paths of the Dead. Halbarad had meant to keep the knowledge to himself, 
but his tongue had betrayed him upon the threshold of the Door. As it ever has! 
he thought, and smiled again, though this time with a fond nostalgia. The poetic 
soul of his people had passed him by, and when he had been young, he had often 
been frustrated by his inability to speak with the grace and wit of others, 
feeling as a crow among a nest of nightingales. It was a young Aragorn who had 
freed him from that sense of failure, and inspired him to verse, even. A 
lifetime ago, that was; a generation, as Men now speak of such things, he 
realized, feeling suddenly old indeed.

But we were young once, and as feckless as the rest of Mankind at that age, he 
reminded himself. It had been their first journey together, and nearly their 
first misadventure. Lured from their camp by the wights on the Barrow Downs, 
they had become separated and fallen under the spell of the fell creatures. It 
had been Halbarad, desperately seeking his companion, who had pierced the spell 
with (in his opinion) an ill-made rhyme, allowing Aragorn to find him. We should 
have died that night! Halbarad, looking back upon that journey, shuddered to 
think of the mistakes they had made. Yet somehow, they had survived, and their 
paths afterwards had become harder, and lonelier, and certainly more perilous. 
Aragorn ought to have died many times over; and but that I lived still, I would 
have spent those years in mortal terror for him. Fortune will not allow us to 
escape for so long without exacting a price, and better that I pay it than that 
he should. Minas Tirith will need him, but my services are at an end.

Some might have resented the grim tribute levied by fate, but not he. Halbarad 
found a definite comfort in its inevitability, though he would have been 
hard-pressed to explain it to anyone. There was a poetry to it, he decided, and 
it was a verse he could speak without stumbling, for it was lived rather than 
sung. Though he had never sought to restrain Aragorn's wanderings, he had always 
felt a certain melancholic yearning to accompany his friend upon those lonely 
journeys. At the same time, he knew full well that such paths were not his to 
walk, that his place was in the North for as long as Aragorn should need him 
there. And indeed, he had kept his post faithfully until the summons had come. 
But now the wheel of fate had turned fully at last: the tale of his life was 
spun out and the last thread pulled taut, ready for the shears. Finally, after 
long years of watching Aragorn go hence from him upon paths he could not tread, 
the time had come for him to depart whither his friend could not go. Not yet at 
least, he thought with quiet contentment, as he stared out at the blurred shapes 
and subdued colors of Gondor-beneath-the-Shadows.

Perhaps a quarter of an hour passed, and still Halbarad stood in silent 
contemplation, when a quiet footfall and the creak of wooden planking announced 
the presence of another. Hearing it, he glanced over his shoulder just as 
Aragorn came to lean beside him, and Halbarad caught his breath. For gone was 
the grim and travel-worn Ranger with whom he had set out; in his place stood a 
king, stern and commanding, and a light was in his eyes that even Halbarad had 
seldom seen kindled. His friend was clad in mail, and beneath the grey cloak of 
Lórien was girt Andúril in its elven-sheath. Upon his breast lay the eagle-form 
of the Elessar, which seemed to glow faintly green in spite of the dimmed sky. 
But over all, he bore the Elendilmir upon his brow, silver-white against raven 
dark locks, and that jewel glittered unmistakably, alive with an almost 
unearthly radiance, making him seem more Elf than Man. Or perhaps it was simply 
that Aragorn had at last cast aside all disguise, and allowed–nay, dared–others 
to see him as he truly was. Now his friend and lord turned and caught Halbarad's 
eyes with his own, and for all their brightness, there seemed to be a question 
in them….

"It suits you, my lord," Halbarad said softly, and the corners of Aragorn's 
mouth twitched in what might have been a smile.

"Title I have, and hear it often enough. From you, though, I would hear no 
greater title than my name, Halbarad," Aragorn replied, and smiled in fact this 
time.

"Then I have long waited for this day, Estel my friend," he responded 
obediently. "And glad am I to have seen its dawning, though I would fain see you 
wear a crown in peace than watch you set forth to battle." Almost instantly, he 
regretted the words. Aragorn looked away, but not before he saw those 
quicksilver eyes harden. Ever the crow! Halbarad grimaced, berating himself 
inwardly. "Aragorn, I meant not–"

"I know you did not," the other replied quickly. "And I came not to argue with 
you, nor to plead with you. How could I?" And now Aragorn met his friend's gaze 
again, pinning Halbarad under his regard. The light of those keen eyes lanced 
him, but now it was as the moon upon the sea: soft and sad, touched with a grace 
rooted in the depths of the world. "For I, too, have long known that death would 
come between us."

"You knew?!" Halbarad gasped, astonished. Aragorn nodded mutely. "Why, then–?"

"Foresight is never certain, and," here the other paused and gave a low, 
somewhat rueful laugh, "I hoped I was wrong. The years passed, and always we 
returned from our journeys to keep tryst, though whether by chance or our own 
foresight it mattered not. And though the feeling never left me that one day you 
would come no more from the far countries, I would not believe it or speak of 
it. But how shall I argue with my heart now, and in the face of your certainty?"

"I never meant to deceive," Halbarad said slowly, seeking the right words to 
explain the matter. And since his thoughts were upon youthful adventures, he 
asked, "You and I… do you recall that night on the Downs, when I thought we were 
lost indeed? "

"Of course," Aragorn replied. "You saved us both that night. If you had not 
found your tongue, and broken the wights' spell with that verse of yours, we 
would not have seen the dawn."

"I had never been so frightened as when I realized you were gone, and I knew not 
whither. But afterwards, when we went back together to our fire, I knew that I 
could never lose you again. That it was fated so. And," Halbarad smiled gently, 
"I was glad." His voice in the dusky light sounded hushed, as if the air 
conspired to keep his words between them alone. The waters of Anduin swirled 
below them, muddy and dull without the sun to pierce their depths, and smoke lay 
heavy in the sky above, resisting the wind. Between the gloom of air and water 
hovered Minas Tirith, and the fields upon which their long friendship would be 
broken. And yet, they spoke no more, knowing full well that soon it would be too 
late for speech. But such was the nature of the love that they held for each 
other that it had long since ceased to need words–inadept and clumsy at the 
pinch–to make itself felt. Many long watches they had borne together in silence, 
but for a few words sufficient to their purposes. In fact, they needed that 
stillness which they found in each other's company, for it was the stillness of 
peace rather than of oppression, and it arose from the presence of one 
well-loved, rather than from the mere absence of others.

So now they stood upon the prow and watched Minas Tirith loom beneath the 
darkling sky, and they cherished a last silence before the din of war.

 

***

 

Thus it was that in Minas Tirith's most desperate hour, unheralded and unlooked 
for, Aragorn son of Arathorn, the Heir of Isildur, made landfall upon the quays 
and burst upon the enemies of Gondor like a storm. With his coming, the host of 
Mordor was swept away, and the banner of the kings flew once again, borne into 
the fray by Halbarad son of Hirthon. Of the Battle of Pelennor fields, song and 
story would later tell much, for it was a great victory, though it came at a 
high cost. But none knew better than Aragorn the price in blood and tears….

In the dying light of the evening a tall, cloaked figure moved among the carnage 
of the field. No gem adorned his raiment: the grey cloak of Lórien veiled him 
from the curiosity of others as Aragorn traced a slow path back towards Harlond. 
There nestled the silent ships, their masts now divested of any standard, 
looking as trees laid bare by the winter. Beneath his feet, the grass gleamed a 
sickly red that owed nothing to the sunset's scarlet colors. At length, he 
paused, and knelt upon that blood-slick field, and had there been anyone there 
to see it, he wept, though silently and briefly for he had but little time to 
mourn. Halbarad lay where he had fallen, and about him lay a half dozen Southron 
warriors who had fallen with him. Aragorn sighed, remembering the last few 
moments ere he had broken through to Éomer's line. Though the tide had turned 
with the coming of reinforcements out of the south, still there had been hard 
fighting, especially against the Haradrim, in whose veins flowed the blood of 
Númenór betrayed. A fresh company of Southron warriors had flung themselves into 
the foremost ranks with such ferocity that even the Dúnedain had been unable to 
check their advance entirely. A knot of the red- and black-garbed Men had found 
their way through to the standard, where had stood only Halbarad, Elladan and 
Elrohir. Yet even the Haradrim could not prevail against three such determined 
defenders, and it had seemed they might yet cut their way through to safety. But 
it was not to be. Halbarad had been borne back off balance by two enemies, and 
before he could regain himself, one of the Haradrim had come up with a knife and 
dealt him a fatal wound. Even dying, Halbarad had refused to surrender, and he 
had laid his enemy down beside him in that mortal sleep, leaving Elrohir to 
dispatch the other.

Now Aragorn stared down at his friend's unmoving form and felt his loss keenly. 
A dark strand of blood-matted hair had fallen across Halbarad's face, and 
Aragorn reached out and gently smoothed it aside. Halbarad seemed asleep, for 
his eyes were closed and his lips slightly parted, as if awaiting a kiss; and 
his expression in his final repose bore no trace of the pain he must have 
suffered. But his face was cold beneath his fingers, bloodlessly pale, and 
bereft of the lively humour that should have animated it. Aragorn closed his 
eyes and sought once more Halbarad's face in his memory, recalling the 
indomitable and steadfast spirit that had once dwelt behind it. And yet now that 
soul was sundered from its mortal form, and it made its final journey alone upon 
paths which Aragorn could not now follow. Would that it were not so, Halbarad! 
Short indeed are the days, as Elrond foretold, for there was never time enough 
for such friendship as ours. I would have you still at my side, to see the 
fruits of your labors and mine, dear friend. Alas for the cruelty of fortune!

"He died well," a voice said in the gathering dusk, and Aragorn wearily glanced 
over his shoulder at the wizard who stood behind him. Gandalf gazed back at him 
with compassion, but there was steel also in his eyes, and Aragorn knew he could 
not stay long upon the field, that other tasks called him. Still, he lingered on 
his knees a moment longer. "Come my friend," Gandalf spoke softly in the 
darkness. "There is nothing more that you can do here, for he is beyond even the 
realm of the world now, and I doubt not that he has found rich reward for his 
loyalty and sacrifice. But there are others who need you, and whom you may yet 
save."

"And yet all such others will never be Halbarad," Aragorn sighed as he rose.

"Of course not," the wizard said, and laid a hand upon his arm and squeezed. 
"But the need remains. And I would beg you to come quickly–come now–for the sake 
of three in especial. Eowyn, Faramir, and Merry lie under the shadow, and I fear 
there is no one to recall them, if you will not."

"I will come, then," Aragorn replied quietly. A moment he stood in silence, 
gazing down upon Halbarad one last time. "Farewell my friend!" he murmured 
softly and raised his eyes to the dim stars that had begun to appear in the sky. 
The Heron sparkled upon the horizon, following the Evening Star in a chase begun 
in the deep past, hunter and hunted ever faithful in their course. And beyond 
them …. "Safe voyage!" Then he turned and went with Gandalf up into the city.


The End