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Cleft
The first, hissed response to Kestrel’s speech was not the only one. A slow, angry murmur ran along the edge of the crowd, but stopped as Cleft, unexpectedly, stepped over to her side and gestured for silence.
“Why did we come here?” he asked them. There was nothing but silence from the crowd. Even the few rangers who were still standing there did not venture to interrupt him. He continued. “If we wished for death, we could have found it in our own village, instead of coming here as captives. We can still die if we desire to do so. I do not blame anyone who does. But I am old. My life, I think, is worth little of itself, but if I throw it away, who will remind us who we are when the foreign people have overrun us?” Cleft did not notice the disgruntlement of the Gondorians at his words, or Borgand’s gesture that stopped them from acting upon it. He was still speaking. “I have worked for all of you, all these years of life. I cannot choose death now. I will acknowledge these my kinsmen.”
He nodded his head toward Borgand, the gesture that, to the Hillmen, indicated recognition of another village’s chief. Such a nod suggested respect and at least temporary validity of any deals made. It was not a gesture of deference, and Cleft noted with amusement the surprise on the faces of the southerners as the previously grim and taciturn Hillmen began to converse animatedly among themselves. Surely they do not imagine that we are like this every day!
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