Demaethor and Amariel

[Rosie Gamgee]

Chapter Twelve

With a steady pace came the great Captain Demaethor. His gait was confident, though the eyes of the knowing could discern the slightest list in his step: the mark of wounds now many months old. The list and a deep scar were the only visible reminders left upon him of the long road from Eldalondë to Rómenna. And the look of brevity that hid behind his eyes was the only shadow remaining upon his countenance that spoke of Númenor’s downfall—but all of the Exiles carried that shadow now. One of happy contentment, chiefly, was Demaethor’s expression. His eyes were set ahead of him with a look of quiet anticipation, and the slightest of smiles betrayed the fact that his thought was not with the company he walked with. The corridor echoed with Demaethor’s footfalls, the sound darting from wall to wall like the flickering torchlight. That same light glittered off of the gleaming armour he wore, and the helm he carried under his arm. A milky white mantle fell from his shoulders to the backs of his knees. He advanced followed by knights of the guard of Pelargir. They were to be witnesses this day, along with the Captain of the Guard, who walked just behind Demaethor. All were girt in shining mail and robed in clean, flowing surcoats. Their iron-shod feet clacked upon the stone floor in perfect time.

At Demaethor’s left side was Esteldûr. The young man walked with his head held high, and a robe befitting the day’s occasion was about him: a fine, ‘broidered festal garment. He carried before him a weighty shape that was laid across his outstretched arms and draped with a dark cloth.

Anárion was on Demaethor’s right hand. He, too, was dressed finely, in lordly garb with a circlet bound about his head. Only a few moments ago he had come with the guard to summon Demaethor and Esteldûr, and now they walked along each in their own thoughts.

A huge set of wooden doors stood at the end of the corridor. Sunlight streamed through the spaces at the top and sides of the doors into the otherwise dark hall, creating a tunnel of light before them. Demaethor slowed as he approached, then halted. Something in his heart stirred here, now that he had come to the end of the short walk from his quarters to these doors. It was as if all the roads of his existence had led him to this one point. Like the one who observes a tapestry being woven, he had heretofore seen only the threads of his life. Now, standing back, he could see the whole picture: that all his life was not just a series of meaningless events, like random threads, but that they all worked together to bring him to this one moment—now. A little trepidation touched his heart at this the beginning of a new life. He turned to exchange a glance with Anárion, and the son of Elendil smiled reassurance.


It honoured Demaethor much to have Anárion at his side this day.

In those days after the Downfall, the roaring wind that took the Faithful so violently from Númenor’s destruction brought them at last to the shores which they sought, though through many doubts and hardships. For Elendil’s ships and those of his sons were separated in the gale, and they knew not as they were driven on the waves if they had been preserved but for another doom. But though the winds seemed hapless, Isildur and Anárion were landed safely upon Middle-earth—yet even that was strange and fearful, for the sundering and changing of the world that had sunken Númenor had changed the shores of the Middle Lands as well.

Sorrow, chiefly, had marked the arrival of Demaethor, Amariel and all the Faithful to the lands of their exile. For their loss was deep, and would never be forgotten by those that had known the foundered land from whence they came. It had been but a few months since they had come up the Great River Anduin to the fortress of Pelargir, which had been shaken by the changing of the world, but remained yet. Isildur had gone with a good number to establish a settlement further up-river some months past, and work was already begun to build a city there, which Isildur named Osgiliath. And now rumours abounded that Elendil’s four ships had come to the northern shores of Middle-earth, and that he had been aided by the Elven-king Gil-galad in Lindon. A company had been sent to seek the way north and find out if the word was true, and to bear tidings to Elendil of his sons.

With these hopeful beginnings in the strange, new middle-lands, the burdened hearts of the Exiles were lifted. And this day marked the first joyous occasion the Exiles of Númenor would celebrate. For today the great Captain Demaethor was to wed Amariel, daughter of Nedron the scribe. All the folk were eager to cast off the shadow of their exile and remember that they were preserved from destruction that they might yet live and love and be joyful in both, and so a great feast was made by Anárion in honour of the union of his friends.


Demaethor returned Anárion’s smile, and, drawing a breath, turned again to face the looming doors before them. Anárion nodded to a figure who stood off to the side, and he came forth silently to draw back one of the doors. The huge wooden panel swung back, creaking on its iron hinges. The corridor was flooded with the blinding morning sunlight. Demaethor raised a hand to shade his eyes, and with no more delay stepped out into the day.

Beyond the doors was a wide courtyard with a fountain, which overlooked the River. The standard of Elendil’s sons waved in the wind above: the sign of the White Tree. In the courtyard was the Tree itself, the scion of Nimloth—not yet planted, for Isildur desired that it should be planted where he dwelt, and he had no permanent abode yet, but here it stood in a place of honour, and was attended by the same detail of men that had brought it out of foundered Númenor.

The courtyard was filled with people. Bright, cloudless morning sunlight bathed the throng, and happy talk and laughter floated on the air. Demaethor and his entourage walked through an avenue that cleared for them as they came, coming to a set place before the fountain. They had not long to wait, for immediately a solitary horn was blown, and the company gathered in the courtyard silenced. As for Demaethor, he suddenly forgot all that was around him. He turned to face a door at the other end of the courtyard. His attention was fixed on it, his breath caught in anticipation, his eye straining for the first glimpse of the one he knew was coming.

The door was flung back, and maidens dressed all in creamy white came forth, playing flutes and tambourines. Flowers were in their hair and the music of their instruments made a joyous strain which carried clearly on the breeze. Following them came a troop of young children with bells of different sizes, ringing them boisterously and crying aloud, “Here comes the bride! Here comes the bride!�

At last she appeared at the doorway. Anardil was by her side, clinging to her hand, walking with her in small steps.

Her hair was like the sunlight, gleaming and clean, half of it falling down her back like a cascade of golden water, the other half braided and coiled and arranged about her head, woven with flowers and glittering jewels. A veil was laid over her head made of a thin cloth like woven gossamer. Embracing her form was a gown of flowing white. It was bound about her with a sash of grey-blue like unto the colour of her eyes. As she moved, a little tinkling noise came from a myriad of little bells that had been sewn to the hem of her gown.

But all of this finery seemed hardly to register in Demaethor’s thought. His gaze was riveted on her face, her demure smile, her own glance turned downward—yet no longer in shame, but blushing happiness. He watched, transfixed, as Amariel’s eyes turned upward and sought him out of the crowd. And when they found him, what joy filled his heart!

Her companions lowered their instruments of music and took up a formation beside Demaethor’s knights. The children ceased to ring their bells. Amariel stepped near. Her presence was so tangible, Demaethor thought. She let go of Anardil’s hand and extended both of hers. Demaethor grasped them but for a moment, then tore his gaze from her to turn towards Esteldûr. The young man moved nearer to him, still bearing the shrouded object in his outstretched arms.

Demaethor lifted the dark covering off. There lay his battle-axe. It was clean and polished so that it reflected the morning light like a mirror. The tool-work on the haft shone in sharp relief as well, glittering and sparkling in the sunlight. Demaethor lifted it, flexing his fingers round the haft, feeling its weight anew. He turned back to Amariel, holding the weapon vertically in both hands.

“Amariel,� he began, and heard his own voice echo back to him from the walls of the yard and from the flowing water of the river, “all of my life I have spent in service. Fealty, duty and service is all I know. From my youth I have taken orders and given them. Yet for the greater part of my life that service and fealty was gravely misplaced. These hands of mine have worked much wrong—that you know well. Yet here this day, once and for all, I put behind me the deeds of old. I will serve no longer any master who demands my soul as well as my life—none save Ilúvatar, whose goodness and mercy has brought us all out of destruction and into new hope. And with His blessing I offer to you now this token of mine.� Demaethor lowered to her extended hands the weighty axe, but did not let it go just yet. “Let this be a token of my service, Amariel. I give you my hand, my body, and all my worldly goods, and I surrender this day into your keeping the service I pledge to Ilúvatar alone. May I take this up again only to defend what is good and just and right. With it, and all my heart, I thee wed.�

He loosed the weapon into her hands. Amariel held it briefly, and then offered it back to him. “Aye, my lord,� she replied softly. Her quiet tones rang throughout the silent courtyard. “Take your orders from this day forth from God alone, and let no man defile your conscience again. Walk in what is right and good; and as for me, I will follow wherever you lead.� Demaethor took back the axe from her gentle hands. “For you have prized me above all you hold dear, and loved me though I merited it not. I give you now my hand, my body, and my life. With Ilúvatar’s blessing, I thee wed.�

Silence claimed a small space, while the breeze blew over the assembled crowd and the Great River rolled past. It was Anárion who began the cheer. Soon the whole courtyard was cheering and clapping and singing as the children began to ring the bells once more and the maidens took up again their merry strains.

Demaethor heeded not any of the joyous clamour, but only smiled. He laid aside his axe heedlessly, and reached out to lift Amariel’s veil from her face. And under the bright sunlight, he drew her into his arms and kissed her.

The End