The Storm
These characters all belong to the estate of J.R.R. Tolkien. This story was written for pleasure and not for financial gain.
O my soul’s joy,
If after every tempest come such calms,
May the winds blow till they have wakened death!
And let the labouring bark climb hills of seas
Olympus-high, and duck again as low
As hell’s from heaven! - William Shakespeare (1564–1616), British dramatist, poet. Othello, in Othello, act 2, sc. 1, l. 185-9.
With thanks to Raksha and Deandra
Aragorn paced restlessly across the chamber, oblivious to the fine tapestries and furniture that adorned it. The room felt oppressively stuffy after a day of humid heat.
A summer storm now raged outside in the gathering dusk, the wind and rain beating fiercely against the windows. Lightening flashed against the darkening sky, while overhead the thunder roared like an angry dragon. How many times had he craved shelter when the elements raged outside? How often had he envied the Bree folk safe and dry in their snug houses? He had lost count long ago. Now he lived in sumptuous surroundings, well protected from the wind and rain. Yet, he found he missed them! Somehow, he felt less than fully alive, sheltered as he now was from nature’s fury.
“You remind me of a wild horse, chomping at the bit,” said Arwen, looking up from her embroidery. ”Go and get some fresh air, ere you wear a hole in the carpet!”
“My guards would never let me!” Aragorn said glumly.
“What became of the Ranger I married?” asked the Queen. ”You spent many a year evading being seen, if you so chose. It should cause you little difficulty in slipping past the guards unnoticed!”
“Your words are wise, vanimelda,” said Aragorn, kissing her tenderly. Snatching up his cloak, and pulling the hood closely around his face, he slipped through the maze of corridors, skilfully dodging his guards. He made his way outside, silent and stealthy as a cat.
The King walked briskly until he came to a secluded corner of the Citadel gardens. The thunder and lightening had ceased now, leaving in its wake heavy, drenching rain and a refreshing stiff breeze.
Aragorn cast aside his cloak and lifted his face towards the heavens, rejoicing in the feel of the cool water as it ran down his face. His hair was soon drenched and plastered to his face, but he cared not.
Soon his clothing was soaked. Cold rivulets of rainwater trickled down his neck. Impulsively, he peeled off his tunic and shirt, allowing the rain to run freely down his bare chest and back. He closed his eyes. The breeze gusted fiercely against his bare skin. It seemed almost to caress him, making him feel invigorated and truly alive. He felt as if he could dance with the sheer ecstasy of feeling as one with nature; a child of wind, and storm and sky
Suddenly, his keen senses heard a twig cracking, as if trodden underfoot. Startled, he opened his eyes and made to snatch up his discarded clothing. It would not do at all for a King to be caught like this, half naked and dripping. The servants and nobility would think their new lord a madman!
“Estel! I could not resist joining you.”
It was Arwen. She came barefoot, dropping her cloak at her feet to reveal a simple linen gown beneath.
“Beloved, you surprised me!”
Arwen laughed, a sweet musical tone that always made her husband’s heart soar. ”A Peredhil can be as stealthy as a Ranger, and even closer to nature,” she said. ”At Imladris I would dance beneath the waterfall and revel in the feel of the spray. Come, dance with me!” She pulled him close, her breath warm against his skin.
Aragorn kicked off his boots and they laughingly began to dance across the grass, oblivious of the downpour. Slowly the rain ceased. The moon emerged from behind the scudding clouds, bathing the dancers in a silver glow.
Aragorn studied his wife’s lovely features. She looked fairer than ever in the moonlight, her hair dishevelled and damp, while her gown clung becomingly to her graceful figure.
Suddenly they stopped dancing. Breathlessly, they stood gazing at each other. Aragorn pulled his wife close and kissed her. She returned the kiss, her slender fingers caressing his skin, her warmth and nearness setting his body ablaze. The tempest in the heavens had abated, but nature had kindled another storm within their hearts, one of a very different kind, but no less fierce in its passion.
A/N This was the sole entry for a contest with the theme of “Nature” as the challenge.
The events take place a few weeks after Aragorn and Arwen’s marriage.
I have posted the first chapter of a new angst laden story “Dies Irae” on this site.
Saturday, September 27, 2008
Tuesday, September 23, 2008
Dies iræ! (Day of wrath)
The characters are the property of the Tolkien Estate. No profit has been, nor will be made from this story.
With grateful thanks to Raksha and Deandra
Dies iræ! dies illa
Solvet sæclum in favilla
Teste David cum Sibylla!
(Day of wrath! O day of mourning!
See fulfilled the prophets' warning,
Heaven and earth in ashes burning!) - Thomas of Celano 13th Century Latin hymn used in the Requiem Mass
Trailed discretely by two Guards, Aragorn walked briskly through the market place. He paused to acknowledge with a nod or a smile the many greetings called out to him. He stopped only when he reached a stall which sold jewellery made from rough-cut semi precious stones. Since he had delighted his Queen with a simple amethyst necklace some time ago, he often bought her similar trinkets when he visited the market.
“Do you have any necklaces of lapis lazuli?” Aragorn asked the trader.
“Indeed, my lord, I do! I have bracelets and necklaces and rings of the very finest quality, imported from Khand. They arrived only yesterday. Or would my lord perhaps like to see my new rose quartz collection, which I just unpacked this morning? Rose quartz would surely suit the Queen’s colouring, like the pink clouds of sunset around the evening star.”
The two Guards, Meneldil and Cirion, exchanged bored glances as the trader prattled on about the perfection of his baubles. Cirion, new to his post, yawned. Both were unwed and deemed their lord's habit of personally searching out gifts for his lady to be a task beneath the dignity of a king.
As they watched their King talk with the merchant, they noticed a cloaked woman who walked with odd, stumbling steps, shuffle up to the stall. Bent beneath a burden of years, grey tresses straggling from out the hood of her cloak, the woman seemed fragile as she stood near the tall, strong form of King Elessar. Her wrinkled hands carefully fingered a pearl necklace. Meneldil wondered idly if the old lady had a granddaughter, for she was surely too old to want to wear one herself. He focussed his attention on a young lad who was weaving swiftly and purposefully through the stalls, and would soon pass close to the King. Was the boy a messenger, a cutpurse, or simply a lad on an errand for his mother?
As Aragorn handed over some coins to the merchant, the cloaked woman staggered, and gasped as if in distress. With the instinct of a trained healer, Aragorn reached out to help her. The woman grasped his arm with one hand, reached inside her cloak with the other, and with sudden, terrible speed, drove a dagger into Aragorn's shoulder.
The King stumbled and cried out while the youth and other passers-by screamed in horror. More Guards rushed to the scene. Cursing, Cirion and Meneldil pulled the assassin off of their lord and hastily subdued her.
Aragorn was the first to collect himself. “Stay calm!” he cried. He slowly pulled the dagger from his shoulder. A merchant selling cloth at the next stall thrust a piece of linen into Aragorn’s hands. The King briskly staunched the wound with it. ”The wound is but slight,” he reassured the bystanders.
The woman gave an evil laugh grin. The Guards tore the hood away from her face revealing the swarthy skin and tattooed cheeks of a native of Far Harad. ”You are doomed to die, Elessar!” she spat in heavily accented Westron. “As you killed my husband, so I have killed you. My blade is coated with a deadly poison, which will slay you before twenty-four hours have passed!”
“You will pay dearly for this!” cried Meneldil, his young face fierce with rage.
The woman laughed maliciously. “There is nothing you can do to me, Elessar, for I have even less time left than you!” She raised her arm, so that her sleeve fell back to reveal a small cut on her arm. “A few hours ago, I cut myself with this poisoned blade that I might go to join my husband in the underworld. Then I thought, why not take you with me on my long journey as an offering to the spirits of the dead?”
“Take her to the Houses of Healing!” Aragorn commanded. ”See if the Healers can learn what venom she has used. Her dagger should yield traces of it.”
The Guards tried to march the woman off, but she seemed hardly able to place one foot in front of the other. ”See!” she cried in hideous joy, “Already the poison consumes me. Soon it will be your turn, Elessar!”
“Shall we escort you to the Houses as well, my lord?” Cirion enquired of Aragorn.
The King shook his head. ”If I am to die, I prefer to do so in my own bed!” he said grimly. ”Send a messenger to Lord Faramir in Ithilien on the swiftest horse that can be found and bid him come to me at once,” he ordered. “And summon the Warden of the Houses of Healing to my quarters once he has examined the woman.”
Refusing all offers of help from the Guards and concerned passers by, Aragorn made his way back to his apartments. His mind raced in turmoil. Was the woman telling the truth or was she simply mad? There had been a Southron incursion on the marches of Ithilien a few weeks past. Aragorn and Faramir had fought and killed those who had refused to surrender. He had slain their aging leader with his own hand. Those they had taken prisoner claimed their fallen leader was a venerable warlord. Could the slain Southron captain have been the woman’s husband?
Aragorn subdued a tremble. Could he truly be doomed to die within twenty-four hours? He had so much to live for! What of Arwen and his son? He did not want to leave them. And what of Faramir, his best friend and Steward? How could he leave those he loved so soon? Then what of Gondor and Arnor? Eldarion was scarcely more than a baby. What would happen to his kingdoms if he died now? Apart from the pain in his shoulder, Aragorn felt perfectly well. Surely his doom was not come so soon!
Aragorn paused briefly before the White Tree, wondering if he looked upon its beauty for the last time. The Tree of the Kings was still a slender sapling. He had hoped to watch it grow through the years, to see the Tree rise high and strong, its still fragile branches thicken and stretch out with new leaves over the Citadel where Isildur had once walked. He had hoped by the time he passed the Silver Crown to Eldarion that the roots would have grown deep and the trunk thick and sturdy.
Arwen hastened out to meet him at the entrance to his private apartments. Her beautiful face was pale and drawn. ”Estel, I have heard grave tidings!” she cried. ”Tell me it is not true that you have received a deadly wound?”
Aragorn clasped her tightly in his arms. ”I do not know, my love,” he said sadly. ”I need to examine the injury.” He made his way to his private chambers, closely followed by Arwen. Gathering his healing supplies, he spread them on the bed, then removed his makeshift bandage and pulled off his cloak, tunic and shirt.
The wound was small, less than an inch in length and scarcely bleeding. Hardly alarming to look upon, but already the wound felt hot, almost tingling, to Aragorn’s careful touch. The edges of the cut were a curious greenish shade. “Alas!” cried Aragorn. ”It is indeed poisoned, and not the usual venom favoured by the Haradrim, which is easy enough to treat with the right knowledge. I have never before come across this poison before!”
"It is such a tiny cut to be so deadly, Estel!" Arwen exclaimed softly, carefully studying the wound. The horror in her eyes chilled Aragorn. “Could my father's books hold the answers you seek?” she asked with sudden hope. “If only my brothers were here!”
“Your father would have shared the knowledge with me, had he possessed it,” Aragorn said sadly. ”He taught me all that he knew of the poisons used by the Dark Lord and his minions. I must proceed with the knowledge I already have, and the implements and medicines available here. Now I have need of hot water.”
While Arwen sought a servant, Aragorn plunged a knife into the fire that burned in the grate and waited for the blade to grow white hot. Retrieving the knife, he gritted his teeth and sliced into his shoulder, opening the existing wound wider and forcing it to bleed.
“Whatever are you doing?” Arwen asked in horror, returning with the water and hearing his stifled groans.
“Trying to flush out some of the poison,” he told her. ”‘Tis but a slim chance it will help, but any chance is better than none!” He took two athelas leaves from a pouch in his healing supplies, breathed on them and cast them into the hot water. “Will you bandage my shoulder, please?” he asked Arwen, pressing the leaves into the wound. “Athelas is the most potent weapon I know of against deadly venoms. Even as he spoke, Aragorn feared it was already too late. The tips of his fingers were beginning to feel numb, which he recalled Elrond once warning him to be aware of as an early symptom of poisoning. He stifled his rising feelings of panic and tried to calmly recall his Healer’s training. How else might he slow the deadly venom? Fluids might help flush some of it from his body. He found he craved tea, such as the Hobbits drank. He asked Arwen to send a servant to bring it. While they waited, Aragorn donned a loose robe, struggling to tie the sash around his waist.
Arwen noticed how he was fumbling, and knew why. The anguish in her eyes almost caused his heart to break there and then.
Aragorn could do nothing await Master Tarostar, Warden of the Houses of Healing and what tidings he might bring. He could only hope that Faramir would arrive while he was still conscious. There was so much he needed to tell his friend and Steward in the little time he had left. He could only wait and conserve his strength as best he could. Arwen sat beside him on the vast bed frantically searching through her father’s books for any clue how she could save her husband. There was none.
An hour or so later, Tarostar arrived. ”The woman refused to speak, not even to give her name,” he informed the King grimly. ”She is very near death now. We have dosed her with the antidote to every known poison, but alas, nothing is having any effect.”
Arwen buried her face in her hands.
“Keep on observing her,” Aragorn said, somehow maintaining a calm composure as his last hopes faded. ”Perhaps you will yet learn something of use.”
“Yes, my lord,” said the Warden, trying to mask his own emotions. “Is there any other assistance I may offer?”
“Not yet,” said Aragorn. ”I would be alone with my wife now until Lord Faramir arrives.”
As soon as the man left, Aragorn slumped back against the pillows. His hands now tingled up to the wrists and his fingers felt stiff and clumsy. “To think that I should die like this!” he cried in fury. “I fought many battles, knowing I might easily fall in combat, or that I might be killed by agents of the Dark Lord while I was in hiding. Now, just when I felt I could finally enjoy the fruits of my labours, I am doomed to fall at the hands of a madwoman! Why, why?”
Arwen could only shake her head, having no answer or comfort to offer him.
The characters are the property of the Tolkien Estate. No profit has been, nor will be made from this story.
With grateful thanks to Raksha and Deandra
Dies iræ! dies illa
Solvet sæclum in favilla
Teste David cum Sibylla!
(Day of wrath! O day of mourning!
See fulfilled the prophets' warning,
Heaven and earth in ashes burning!) - Thomas of Celano 13th Century Latin hymn used in the Requiem Mass
Trailed discretely by two Guards, Aragorn walked briskly through the market place. He paused to acknowledge with a nod or a smile the many greetings called out to him. He stopped only when he reached a stall which sold jewellery made from rough-cut semi precious stones. Since he had delighted his Queen with a simple amethyst necklace some time ago, he often bought her similar trinkets when he visited the market.
“Do you have any necklaces of lapis lazuli?” Aragorn asked the trader.
“Indeed, my lord, I do! I have bracelets and necklaces and rings of the very finest quality, imported from Khand. They arrived only yesterday. Or would my lord perhaps like to see my new rose quartz collection, which I just unpacked this morning? Rose quartz would surely suit the Queen’s colouring, like the pink clouds of sunset around the evening star.”
The two Guards, Meneldil and Cirion, exchanged bored glances as the trader prattled on about the perfection of his baubles. Cirion, new to his post, yawned. Both were unwed and deemed their lord's habit of personally searching out gifts for his lady to be a task beneath the dignity of a king.
As they watched their King talk with the merchant, they noticed a cloaked woman who walked with odd, stumbling steps, shuffle up to the stall. Bent beneath a burden of years, grey tresses straggling from out the hood of her cloak, the woman seemed fragile as she stood near the tall, strong form of King Elessar. Her wrinkled hands carefully fingered a pearl necklace. Meneldil wondered idly if the old lady had a granddaughter, for she was surely too old to want to wear one herself. He focussed his attention on a young lad who was weaving swiftly and purposefully through the stalls, and would soon pass close to the King. Was the boy a messenger, a cutpurse, or simply a lad on an errand for his mother?
As Aragorn handed over some coins to the merchant, the cloaked woman staggered, and gasped as if in distress. With the instinct of a trained healer, Aragorn reached out to help her. The woman grasped his arm with one hand, reached inside her cloak with the other, and with sudden, terrible speed, drove a dagger into Aragorn's shoulder.
The King stumbled and cried out while the youth and other passers-by screamed in horror. More Guards rushed to the scene. Cursing, Cirion and Meneldil pulled the assassin off of their lord and hastily subdued her.
Aragorn was the first to collect himself. “Stay calm!” he cried. He slowly pulled the dagger from his shoulder. A merchant selling cloth at the next stall thrust a piece of linen into Aragorn’s hands. The King briskly staunched the wound with it. ”The wound is but slight,” he reassured the bystanders.
The woman gave an evil laugh grin. The Guards tore the hood away from her face revealing the swarthy skin and tattooed cheeks of a native of Far Harad. ”You are doomed to die, Elessar!” she spat in heavily accented Westron. “As you killed my husband, so I have killed you. My blade is coated with a deadly poison, which will slay you before twenty-four hours have passed!”
“You will pay dearly for this!” cried Meneldil, his young face fierce with rage.
The woman laughed maliciously. “There is nothing you can do to me, Elessar, for I have even less time left than you!” She raised her arm, so that her sleeve fell back to reveal a small cut on her arm. “A few hours ago, I cut myself with this poisoned blade that I might go to join my husband in the underworld. Then I thought, why not take you with me on my long journey as an offering to the spirits of the dead?”
“Take her to the Houses of Healing!” Aragorn commanded. ”See if the Healers can learn what venom she has used. Her dagger should yield traces of it.”
The Guards tried to march the woman off, but she seemed hardly able to place one foot in front of the other. ”See!” she cried in hideous joy, “Already the poison consumes me. Soon it will be your turn, Elessar!”
“Shall we escort you to the Houses as well, my lord?” Cirion enquired of Aragorn.
The King shook his head. ”If I am to die, I prefer to do so in my own bed!” he said grimly. ”Send a messenger to Lord Faramir in Ithilien on the swiftest horse that can be found and bid him come to me at once,” he ordered. “And summon the Warden of the Houses of Healing to my quarters once he has examined the woman.”
Refusing all offers of help from the Guards and concerned passers by, Aragorn made his way back to his apartments. His mind raced in turmoil. Was the woman telling the truth or was she simply mad? There had been a Southron incursion on the marches of Ithilien a few weeks past. Aragorn and Faramir had fought and killed those who had refused to surrender. He had slain their aging leader with his own hand. Those they had taken prisoner claimed their fallen leader was a venerable warlord. Could the slain Southron captain have been the woman’s husband?
Aragorn subdued a tremble. Could he truly be doomed to die within twenty-four hours? He had so much to live for! What of Arwen and his son? He did not want to leave them. And what of Faramir, his best friend and Steward? How could he leave those he loved so soon? Then what of Gondor and Arnor? Eldarion was scarcely more than a baby. What would happen to his kingdoms if he died now? Apart from the pain in his shoulder, Aragorn felt perfectly well. Surely his doom was not come so soon!
Aragorn paused briefly before the White Tree, wondering if he looked upon its beauty for the last time. The Tree of the Kings was still a slender sapling. He had hoped to watch it grow through the years, to see the Tree rise high and strong, its still fragile branches thicken and stretch out with new leaves over the Citadel where Isildur had once walked. He had hoped by the time he passed the Silver Crown to Eldarion that the roots would have grown deep and the trunk thick and sturdy.
Arwen hastened out to meet him at the entrance to his private apartments. Her beautiful face was pale and drawn. ”Estel, I have heard grave tidings!” she cried. ”Tell me it is not true that you have received a deadly wound?”
Aragorn clasped her tightly in his arms. ”I do not know, my love,” he said sadly. ”I need to examine the injury.” He made his way to his private chambers, closely followed by Arwen. Gathering his healing supplies, he spread them on the bed, then removed his makeshift bandage and pulled off his cloak, tunic and shirt.
The wound was small, less than an inch in length and scarcely bleeding. Hardly alarming to look upon, but already the wound felt hot, almost tingling, to Aragorn’s careful touch. The edges of the cut were a curious greenish shade. “Alas!” cried Aragorn. ”It is indeed poisoned, and not the usual venom favoured by the Haradrim, which is easy enough to treat with the right knowledge. I have never before come across this poison before!”
"It is such a tiny cut to be so deadly, Estel!" Arwen exclaimed softly, carefully studying the wound. The horror in her eyes chilled Aragorn. “Could my father's books hold the answers you seek?” she asked with sudden hope. “If only my brothers were here!”
“Your father would have shared the knowledge with me, had he possessed it,” Aragorn said sadly. ”He taught me all that he knew of the poisons used by the Dark Lord and his minions. I must proceed with the knowledge I already have, and the implements and medicines available here. Now I have need of hot water.”
While Arwen sought a servant, Aragorn plunged a knife into the fire that burned in the grate and waited for the blade to grow white hot. Retrieving the knife, he gritted his teeth and sliced into his shoulder, opening the existing wound wider and forcing it to bleed.
“Whatever are you doing?” Arwen asked in horror, returning with the water and hearing his stifled groans.
“Trying to flush out some of the poison,” he told her. ”‘Tis but a slim chance it will help, but any chance is better than none!” He took two athelas leaves from a pouch in his healing supplies, breathed on them and cast them into the hot water. “Will you bandage my shoulder, please?” he asked Arwen, pressing the leaves into the wound. “Athelas is the most potent weapon I know of against deadly venoms. Even as he spoke, Aragorn feared it was already too late. The tips of his fingers were beginning to feel numb, which he recalled Elrond once warning him to be aware of as an early symptom of poisoning. He stifled his rising feelings of panic and tried to calmly recall his Healer’s training. How else might he slow the deadly venom? Fluids might help flush some of it from his body. He found he craved tea, such as the Hobbits drank. He asked Arwen to send a servant to bring it. While they waited, Aragorn donned a loose robe, struggling to tie the sash around his waist.
Arwen noticed how he was fumbling, and knew why. The anguish in her eyes almost caused his heart to break there and then.
Aragorn could do nothing await Master Tarostar, Warden of the Houses of Healing and what tidings he might bring. He could only hope that Faramir would arrive while he was still conscious. There was so much he needed to tell his friend and Steward in the little time he had left. He could only wait and conserve his strength as best he could. Arwen sat beside him on the vast bed frantically searching through her father’s books for any clue how she could save her husband. There was none.
An hour or so later, Tarostar arrived. ”The woman refused to speak, not even to give her name,” he informed the King grimly. ”She is very near death now. We have dosed her with the antidote to every known poison, but alas, nothing is having any effect.”
Arwen buried her face in her hands.
“Keep on observing her,” Aragorn said, somehow maintaining a calm composure as his last hopes faded. ”Perhaps you will yet learn something of use.”
“Yes, my lord,” said the Warden, trying to mask his own emotions. “Is there any other assistance I may offer?”
“Not yet,” said Aragorn. ”I would be alone with my wife now until Lord Faramir arrives.”
As soon as the man left, Aragorn slumped back against the pillows. His hands now tingled up to the wrists and his fingers felt stiff and clumsy. “To think that I should die like this!” he cried in fury. “I fought many battles, knowing I might easily fall in combat, or that I might be killed by agents of the Dark Lord while I was in hiding. Now, just when I felt I could finally enjoy the fruits of my labours, I am doomed to fall at the hands of a madwoman! Why, why?”
Arwen could only shake her head, having no answer or comfort to offer him.
Thursday, September 11, 2008
A Taste of Honey
A Taste of Honey
Disclaimer - The characters are the property of the Tolkien Estate. No profit has been, nor will be made from this story.
With grateful thanks to Deandra
The Queen of Hearts,
She made some tarts
All on a summer's day.
The Knave of Hearts,
He stole the tarts
And took them clean away. – Traditional Nursery Rhyme
Honey cakes! How Eldarion loved them! They were his very favourite food. If only his nanny allowed him to eat them more often, but she usually wanted him to eat boring things like bread or porridge instead.
Today, Aragorn and Arwen’s young son was beside himself with excitement, for his mother had promised to take him to visit the kitchens. Arwen had explained that she wanted the cooks to know how much their work was appreciated, and to let Eldarion see how hard the kitchen servants laboured in order for him to enjoy his meals. He was hoping very much that the cook would make some of his favourite cakes for him.
When the Queen and her son reached the kitchens, Eldarion was thrilled to see the cook was taking a tray of freshly baked honey cakes from the oven. An apple-cheeked young maidservant carriedthe cakes to a nearby table to cool.
“May I have one, please?” Eldarion asked politely.
“I’m sorry, Master Eldarion, but these cakes are for the ladies in the Weavers' Guild," said the girl as she rushed back to the stove to tend to a boiling pot. "They are coming to visit your lady mother soon, so we have no time to make more for you.”
“Eldarion, I am certain that you can live throughout the day without a honey cake,” the Queen chided gently. “You see, ion nîn, the food prepared here is not just for us to eat, but for our guests too. And we must think of our guests' needs before our own."
Eldarion was not happy at all. There was a whole tray of honey cakes and he was not allowed to eat even one! His mother moved away to speak to the cook. They were soon engrossed in a deep conversation. No one was watching what one small boy was doing.
Eldarion had been told he should never take anything that was not his. His mother and father had chided him for taking his little sister’s toys, and told him it was very naughty. The boy studied the rapidly cooling cakes longingly. There were so many of them, that surely no one would notice if he took some? They were only cakes, not his sister’s favourite doll, which she cried if she could not play with. His mother was still talking to the cook, while the girl was stirring a pan on the other side of the room. With the inborn stealth of the son of a Peredhil and a Ranger, he seized two cakes from the edge of the tray and stuffed one in each of his tunic pockets.
When his mother at last finished her conversation, she insisted that they return to the nursery now, as she needed to prepare for her visitors later that afternoon.
Arwen lingered for a few moments after handing her son over to his nanny’s care, then took her leave, promising to return after the guests had departed. The nurse settled herself on a rocking chair in a corner by the fire and was soon dozing
Eldarion retrieved the cakes from his pockets and ate them, savouring each delicious bite. The fact they were forbidden made the cakes taste all the sweeter. He knew he had been naughty, but no one would ever find out!
That night, Brithil, the nursery maid who brought Eldarion his supper, was crying. Tears rolled down her cheeks, which she dabbed at with her apron. “What is wrong?” he asked her.
“My best friend, Indis, has been dismissed for stealing some cakes!” sobbed the girl. ”She says she didn’t do it, but cook won’t believe her, and your mother and father have told her she must leave tomorrow. I don’t know what will become of her!”
“Can’t she get more work somewhere else?” asked Eldarion, starting to wish that he had not taken the cakes.
“No one will employ a girl who has been dismissed for stealing!” sniffed Brithil. ”Indis’ father was crippled in the war and her family relies on her wages so that they will have enough to eat.”
Later, as he sat in his mother's solar and played with his toys before bedtime, Eldarion thought about Brithil's news. How could it be his fault that Indis was being made to leave? The cook was making a silly fuss over two small cakes. Then, maybe Indis had taken more cakes afterwards? They were far too tasty not to sample!
“You are very quiet tonight, Eldarion,” said Arwen. “What troubles you, my son?
Eldarion started guiltily. Somehow, his mother was always good at guessing his thoughts.
"Brithil says you are making her best friend, Indis leave," said Eldarion. "It's not fair!"
"Indis did wrong and must be punished," Arwen replied solemnly.
"But she only took some cakes!" Eldarion protested.
"It would matter not if she had taken a cake or one of my most valuable jewels," said the Queen. "Stealing is very wrong. Someone who steals is a thief, and a thief cannot be trusted. Indis did not even steal the cakes out of hunger; as all the servants get as much to eat as they want at mealtimes. What made it worse, was that she refused to tell the truth. If she had confessed to taking the cakes and apologised, your father and I would have forgiven her."
"Um, maybe someone else took them," Eldarion said hesitantly.
His mother shook her head. "That is impossible. No one else, save the cook was in the kitchens, and cook would not steal her own cakes." Arwen sighed. "I know it is hard for you to understand why we have to dismiss Indis, but when you are older you will. Come now, it is past your bedtime."
For a moment, Eldarion was tempted to tell his mother everything. Then he thought how angry and disappointed with him she would be. She would tell his father too, and the King would be furious. Eldarion was frightened of his father’s anger. Aragorn did not beat him, but he sometimes shouted, and the look in his eyes was very scary. He would be punished too, by being made to do something horrid, like having extra lessons.
Eldarion slept little that night, as he could not stop thinking. No one would ever find out that it was he who stole the cakes, so why should he worry about it? Perhaps Indis would find a new job that was more fun than being a kitchen maid? But what if she didn’t? Eldarion had seen beggars on the street who looked very hungry and were dressed in rags. His parents had set up a house of refuge for them, but he did not think Indis and her family would like to live there. The troubled boy finally fell asleep only to dream of a vast plate of cakes above his head, which he tried vainly to reach.
Brithil brought him a delicious breakfast of soft white bread, thickly spread with butter and honey, as well as creamy milk to drink, but he was not hungry and ate only a few mouthfuls.
“What is wrong?” asked Brithil. ”Don’t you feel well, Master Eldarion?”
Eldarion took a deep breath. ”I need to see my father,” he said, rushing out of the room before he could change his mind. A servant escorted him to the King’s study where Aragorn was working.
“Come in!” Aragorn looked up in surprise to see his son hesitating on the threshold of his study. “What is the matter, ion nîn? ” he asked, concerned at Eldarion’s downcast demeanour.
“Adar! I stole those cakes, I don’t want the kitchen maid to lose her job!” Eldarion blurted out. He stood rooted to the spot, resisting the urge to run away and hide from his father’s fury.
“You did what?” Aragorn sounded somewhat incredulous. ”Why should you steal cakes? Are you trying to protect someone? I cannot believe that my son would steal!”
“I fear I did, Adar. I love honey cakes and could not resist them! I took two when no one was looking and stuffed them in my pockets. I know I was very naughty, I’m sorry.” Eldarion glanced at his father’s face. Then unable to endure the look of anger, sorrow, and disappointment in his sire’s eyes, stared at the floor.
At last the King spoke, ”I expected better than this from you, Eldarion,” he said gravely. “I never thought to see the day when my son would act like a common thief! You did, however, own up, rather than let an innocent girl take the blame.”
“I’m very sorry, Adar,” whispered Eldarion. “I won’t do it again.”
“I should think not,” said Aragorn. “I hope you have learned your lesson. To ensure that you do so; you shall not go out riding for a week, nor will you eat any cakes. Instead you will spend more time learning about history, and practicing your writing. I also expect you to apologise to the maid. I will take you to her now.”
Eldarion was marched by his father to the servant’s quarters. The Housekeeper took them to the room that Indis shared with Brithil and another girl. Indis was packing her possessions prior to leaving, and weeping bitterly. She started when she saw the King and bowed low.
“My son has something he wishes to say to you,” said the King.
“Indis, I’m sorry, I got you into trouble,” said Eldarion. “I stole those cakes.”
“The queen and I apologise for wrongly accusing you,” Aragorn said gravely. “We hope you will stay here with us. We will try to make up for the distress you have suffered. Would you like to take a week's paid leave, to spend time with your family within the next week or two?”
“Oh, thank you, my lord! Of course, I want to stay; I love it here!” Indis sobbed even more loudly. “I should love to be able to visit my mother for her birthday next month!”
“And so you shall,” smiled Aragorn.
“Well unpack your things again, then,” said the Housekeeper. “The cook will expect you back in the kitchens this afternoon.”
“Dry your eyes now,” Aragorn said kindly. “The Queen will speak to you later. And Mistress,” he addressed the Housekeeper, "Please make sure that Indis' good name has not suffered for my son's thievery. Anyone who speaks ill of her shall answer to the Queen."
000
The days seemed to pass very slowly for Eldarion. He endured his punishment without complaint and worked hard at his lessons. He was very glad when the week was over.
When Eldarion came back from riding on the first day he was allowed out on his pony again, he found his mother waiting for him with a plate of honey cakes. “Indis made these for you today,” said Arwen. “As I believe you have learned your lesson, you may have some.”
Eldarion took a cake and nibbled it thoughtfully.
“What is the matter?” Arwen enquired. “You do not seem to be enjoying your cake.”
“Somehow, the honey cakes do not seem as sweet as they did before,” said Eldarion, sounding puzzled. “I must thank Indis, though.”
“You have grown up a great deal this past week,” said Arwen. “You have learned that honey cakes are not the most important thing in life!”
“I am proud of you, ion nîn,” said Aragorn, entering the room. “You acted like a true Son of the House of Telcontar by choosing to do what was right.” He smiled ruefully, recalling a day long ago when he had stolen some apples from Master Elrond’s favourite tree and suffered a severe stomach ache all night long as consequence, which his foster father had decided was punishment enough. Growing up was indeed a long and difficult journey, but it seemed that Eldarion at least had embarked in the right direction.
A Taste of Honey
Disclaimer - The characters are the property of the Tolkien Estate. No profit has been, nor will be made from this story.
With grateful thanks to Deandra
The Queen of Hearts,
She made some tarts
All on a summer's day.
The Knave of Hearts,
He stole the tarts
And took them clean away. – Traditional Nursery Rhyme
Honey cakes! How Eldarion loved them! They were his very favourite food. If only his nanny allowed him to eat them more often, but she usually wanted him to eat boring things like bread or porridge instead.
Today, Aragorn and Arwen’s young son was beside himself with excitement, for his mother had promised to take him to visit the kitchens. Arwen had explained that she wanted the cooks to know how much their work was appreciated, and to let Eldarion see how hard the kitchen servants laboured in order for him to enjoy his meals. He was hoping very much that the cook would make some of his favourite cakes for him.
When the Queen and her son reached the kitchens, Eldarion was thrilled to see the cook was taking a tray of freshly baked honey cakes from the oven. An apple-cheeked young maidservant carriedthe cakes to a nearby table to cool.
“May I have one, please?” Eldarion asked politely.
“I’m sorry, Master Eldarion, but these cakes are for the ladies in the Weavers' Guild," said the girl as she rushed back to the stove to tend to a boiling pot. "They are coming to visit your lady mother soon, so we have no time to make more for you.”
“Eldarion, I am certain that you can live throughout the day without a honey cake,” the Queen chided gently. “You see, ion nîn, the food prepared here is not just for us to eat, but for our guests too. And we must think of our guests' needs before our own."
Eldarion was not happy at all. There was a whole tray of honey cakes and he was not allowed to eat even one! His mother moved away to speak to the cook. They were soon engrossed in a deep conversation. No one was watching what one small boy was doing.
Eldarion had been told he should never take anything that was not his. His mother and father had chided him for taking his little sister’s toys, and told him it was very naughty. The boy studied the rapidly cooling cakes longingly. There were so many of them, that surely no one would notice if he took some? They were only cakes, not his sister’s favourite doll, which she cried if she could not play with. His mother was still talking to the cook, while the girl was stirring a pan on the other side of the room. With the inborn stealth of the son of a Peredhil and a Ranger, he seized two cakes from the edge of the tray and stuffed one in each of his tunic pockets.
When his mother at last finished her conversation, she insisted that they return to the nursery now, as she needed to prepare for her visitors later that afternoon.
Arwen lingered for a few moments after handing her son over to his nanny’s care, then took her leave, promising to return after the guests had departed. The nurse settled herself on a rocking chair in a corner by the fire and was soon dozing
Eldarion retrieved the cakes from his pockets and ate them, savouring each delicious bite. The fact they were forbidden made the cakes taste all the sweeter. He knew he had been naughty, but no one would ever find out!
That night, Brithil, the nursery maid who brought Eldarion his supper, was crying. Tears rolled down her cheeks, which she dabbed at with her apron. “What is wrong?” he asked her.
“My best friend, Indis, has been dismissed for stealing some cakes!” sobbed the girl. ”She says she didn’t do it, but cook won’t believe her, and your mother and father have told her she must leave tomorrow. I don’t know what will become of her!”
“Can’t she get more work somewhere else?” asked Eldarion, starting to wish that he had not taken the cakes.
“No one will employ a girl who has been dismissed for stealing!” sniffed Brithil. ”Indis’ father was crippled in the war and her family relies on her wages so that they will have enough to eat.”
Later, as he sat in his mother's solar and played with his toys before bedtime, Eldarion thought about Brithil's news. How could it be his fault that Indis was being made to leave? The cook was making a silly fuss over two small cakes. Then, maybe Indis had taken more cakes afterwards? They were far too tasty not to sample!
“You are very quiet tonight, Eldarion,” said Arwen. “What troubles you, my son?
Eldarion started guiltily. Somehow, his mother was always good at guessing his thoughts.
"Brithil says you are making her best friend, Indis leave," said Eldarion. "It's not fair!"
"Indis did wrong and must be punished," Arwen replied solemnly.
"But she only took some cakes!" Eldarion protested.
"It would matter not if she had taken a cake or one of my most valuable jewels," said the Queen. "Stealing is very wrong. Someone who steals is a thief, and a thief cannot be trusted. Indis did not even steal the cakes out of hunger; as all the servants get as much to eat as they want at mealtimes. What made it worse, was that she refused to tell the truth. If she had confessed to taking the cakes and apologised, your father and I would have forgiven her."
"Um, maybe someone else took them," Eldarion said hesitantly.
His mother shook her head. "That is impossible. No one else, save the cook was in the kitchens, and cook would not steal her own cakes." Arwen sighed. "I know it is hard for you to understand why we have to dismiss Indis, but when you are older you will. Come now, it is past your bedtime."
For a moment, Eldarion was tempted to tell his mother everything. Then he thought how angry and disappointed with him she would be. She would tell his father too, and the King would be furious. Eldarion was frightened of his father’s anger. Aragorn did not beat him, but he sometimes shouted, and the look in his eyes was very scary. He would be punished too, by being made to do something horrid, like having extra lessons.
Eldarion slept little that night, as he could not stop thinking. No one would ever find out that it was he who stole the cakes, so why should he worry about it? Perhaps Indis would find a new job that was more fun than being a kitchen maid? But what if she didn’t? Eldarion had seen beggars on the street who looked very hungry and were dressed in rags. His parents had set up a house of refuge for them, but he did not think Indis and her family would like to live there. The troubled boy finally fell asleep only to dream of a vast plate of cakes above his head, which he tried vainly to reach.
Brithil brought him a delicious breakfast of soft white bread, thickly spread with butter and honey, as well as creamy milk to drink, but he was not hungry and ate only a few mouthfuls.
“What is wrong?” asked Brithil. ”Don’t you feel well, Master Eldarion?”
Eldarion took a deep breath. ”I need to see my father,” he said, rushing out of the room before he could change his mind. A servant escorted him to the King’s study where Aragorn was working.
“Come in!” Aragorn looked up in surprise to see his son hesitating on the threshold of his study. “What is the matter, ion nîn? ” he asked, concerned at Eldarion’s downcast demeanour.
“Adar! I stole those cakes, I don’t want the kitchen maid to lose her job!” Eldarion blurted out. He stood rooted to the spot, resisting the urge to run away and hide from his father’s fury.
“You did what?” Aragorn sounded somewhat incredulous. ”Why should you steal cakes? Are you trying to protect someone? I cannot believe that my son would steal!”
“I fear I did, Adar. I love honey cakes and could not resist them! I took two when no one was looking and stuffed them in my pockets. I know I was very naughty, I’m sorry.” Eldarion glanced at his father’s face. Then unable to endure the look of anger, sorrow, and disappointment in his sire’s eyes, stared at the floor.
At last the King spoke, ”I expected better than this from you, Eldarion,” he said gravely. “I never thought to see the day when my son would act like a common thief! You did, however, own up, rather than let an innocent girl take the blame.”
“I’m very sorry, Adar,” whispered Eldarion. “I won’t do it again.”
“I should think not,” said Aragorn. “I hope you have learned your lesson. To ensure that you do so; you shall not go out riding for a week, nor will you eat any cakes. Instead you will spend more time learning about history, and practicing your writing. I also expect you to apologise to the maid. I will take you to her now.”
Eldarion was marched by his father to the servant’s quarters. The Housekeeper took them to the room that Indis shared with Brithil and another girl. Indis was packing her possessions prior to leaving, and weeping bitterly. She started when she saw the King and bowed low.
“My son has something he wishes to say to you,” said the King.
“Indis, I’m sorry, I got you into trouble,” said Eldarion. “I stole those cakes.”
“The queen and I apologise for wrongly accusing you,” Aragorn said gravely. “We hope you will stay here with us. We will try to make up for the distress you have suffered. Would you like to take a week's paid leave, to spend time with your family within the next week or two?”
“Oh, thank you, my lord! Of course, I want to stay; I love it here!” Indis sobbed even more loudly. “I should love to be able to visit my mother for her birthday next month!”
“And so you shall,” smiled Aragorn.
“Well unpack your things again, then,” said the Housekeeper. “The cook will expect you back in the kitchens this afternoon.”
“Dry your eyes now,” Aragorn said kindly. “The Queen will speak to you later. And Mistress,” he addressed the Housekeeper, "Please make sure that Indis' good name has not suffered for my son's thievery. Anyone who speaks ill of her shall answer to the Queen."
000
The days seemed to pass very slowly for Eldarion. He endured his punishment without complaint and worked hard at his lessons. He was very glad when the week was over.
When Eldarion came back from riding on the first day he was allowed out on his pony again, he found his mother waiting for him with a plate of honey cakes. “Indis made these for you today,” said Arwen. “As I believe you have learned your lesson, you may have some.”
Eldarion took a cake and nibbled it thoughtfully.
“What is the matter?” Arwen enquired. “You do not seem to be enjoying your cake.”
“Somehow, the honey cakes do not seem as sweet as they did before,” said Eldarion, sounding puzzled. “I must thank Indis, though.”
“You have grown up a great deal this past week,” said Arwen. “You have learned that honey cakes are not the most important thing in life!”
“I am proud of you, ion nîn,” said Aragorn, entering the room. “You acted like a true Son of the House of Telcontar by choosing to do what was right.” He smiled ruefully, recalling a day long ago when he had stolen some apples from Master Elrond’s favourite tree and suffered a severe stomach ache all night long as consequence, which his foster father had decided was punishment enough. Growing up was indeed a long and difficult journey, but it seemed that Eldarion at least had embarked in the right direction.
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