The characters are the property of the Tolkien Estate. This story is written for pleasure not profit.
With thanks to Virtuella and Raksha.
And now abideth faith, hope, charity, these three; but the greatest of these is charity. I. Corinthians. 13.13
Faramir realised to his horror that these two were planning to murder Aragorn. Trying to appear as nonchalant as possible, he picked up a peach from the table and made his way back to his place, never taking his eyes from the would be killers.
"Shall I slice that for you, my lord?" asked a servant.
"No thank you." Faramir brushed the man aside. Just then one of the Haradrim reached inside his flowing robes.
"Guards, arrest those men!" Faramir cried.
The guards raced to obey Faramir's orders.
"This is an outrage!" the ambassador protested. "Release my companions at once!"
"They plan to kill the King," Faramir cried.
Hearing the commotion, more guards raced to the scene. They seized the ambassador and the remainder of his entourage.
"How dare you?" Tahir protested. "We came here in peacefulness. We offer not harm to your esteemed majesty."
"You call this no harm?" A guard held up a long handled curved dagger with a serrated blade. "It is punishable by death to carry a concealed weapon in the presence of the King."
"Explain yourself, Ratib," said the ambassador sternly.
"The enemy of the Lord of Gifts deserves to choke in his own blood!" said Ratib in his own tongue. "Let him perish as my brothers were slain!"
"A curse upon him and all of his kind!" cried the second would-be assassin, while a guard relieved him of an equally evil looking blade. He spat in Aragorn's direction.
"Mercy, most gracious and esteemed Lord King!" Tahir managed to break free from the grasp on the guard who was restraining him. He flung himself at Aragorn's feet.. "Let not your wrath fall upon my fair flower and fruits. Shave my beard and tear my robe, do with me as you will, but harm not them! Shame not my fragrant flower and let my sons live! They are but babes."
"What do you take me for?" Aragorn asked angrily. "We do not harm innocent women and children in my realms. They will be shown more courtesy than you have shown us with your wicked plot."
"I plot nothing. I want peace, between our lands friends. " Tahir's Westron became increasingly broken in his agitation.
A sudden horrible thought struck Aragorn. The ambassador's wife was with his Arwen! What if her pregnancy were but a pretext and she was concealing weapons beneath the flowing robes that the Haradrim wore? "See that the prisoners are taken into custody," he ordered Faramir. With that he ran from the room, calling for more guards to join him.
Aragorn drew his sword when he reached his apartments. "Wait there," he ordered the guards. He flung the door wide and hastened within calling his wife's name loudly.
"Whatever is the matter Estel?" Arwen appeared from her private sitting room.
"Where is the ambassador's wife?" Aragorn demanded.
"Lady Adiva? She is resting. The poor woman should never have undertaken so long a journey in her condition, but she was eager to come her. She is interested in horses and is looking forward to seeing those of Rohan and Gondor."
"Her condition? She may not be with child at all, but instead be concealing weapons."
"What nonsense, Estel! She permitted me to feel the baby kicking as well as Dame Ivorwen from the Houses. She was curious about my Elven abilities and I was able to tell she was carrying a strong healthy child who was eager to be born. Whatever is all this about? You will frighten the poor lady bursting in like this!"
"She might well be frightened," Aragorn said grimly. "Her husband and his companions were planning to murder me!"
"My husband is no assassin!" A foreign sounding voice called.
Aragorn gripped his sword hilt tighter as its owner appeared, an olive skinned woman who waddled across the room in great agitation.
"What have you done with my husband?" the woman asked. "Who are you?"
"I am the King," Aragorn replied. "Your husband is under arrest, my lady."
The woman gave a cry in her own language and sank senseless to the ground.
Aragorn bent over her, looking concerned. Dame Ivorwen, together with a woman who appeared to be Lady Adiva's maid, came running at the sound of her cry. The maid, oblivious as to who Aragorn was, started screaming curses at him in her native tongue. Dame Ivorwen tried vainly to calm her.
"She has fainted," said Aragorn. He scooped the woman up and carried her to the couch in Arwen's solar. While the other women fussed around her, she opened her eyes and groaned loudly. Aragorn took Arwen to one side and explained to her all that happened.
The Queen listened gravely, her eyes wide with horror.
"It was when the so called ambassador mentioned his wife that I feared you might be in danger," he explained. I shall send the woman and her children back to Harad."
Dame Ivorwen approached them looking grave. " I believe the Ambassador's wife might be about to give birth, my lord, my lady, though I would need to examine her properly to be certain," she said. "She has started to have strong contractions."
"I will bid the guards carry her on a litter to the Houses of Healing," said Aragorn.
"Your pardon, sire, but I do not think she should be moved, "said Dame Ivorwen. "I doubt she could reach the Houses in time and the journey would be most unpleasant for the poor lady."
"She shall stay here of course," said Arwen before her husband could answer. Her tone permitted no argument.
"I must return to the prisoners," said Aragorn. "My guards will remain in case of any threat to you."
"Well, they can wait outside," Arwen said firmly. "Whatever her husband might have done, Lady Adiva deserves some privacy for the birth."
"I ask you only to be careful," said Aragorn as he took his leave.
Arwen returned to the solar where Lady Adiva lay on the couch .She was trembling.
"There is no need to be afraid," Arwen said kindly. "Your baby will soon be with you."
"Then what will become of us?" cried Lady Adiva. "I be shamed before my husband ere we die, and my precious jewels enslaved! My lord never hurt yours!"
Arwen grasped the woman's hand. "The King would never abuse women and children thus, and your husband will be given a fair hearing. I place you and your children under my personal protection."
"You are most gracious, esteemed Lady Arwen." Lady Adiva managed a faint smile.
Meanwhile Faramir had personally searched the ambassador in deference to his rank and found no weapons on him. Neither had the guards found any further weapons on members of his entourage. Faramir told the guards to take the two would be assassins to prison, but felt loth to send the others there until he had consulted with the King.
He now sat with Tahir in an anteroom near the reception hall. A guard was stationed outside, but the two were alone together. "I desire peace, I would not harm your esteemed Lord King," said Tahir yet again. He was less agitated now and was again speaking fluent Westron.
"For my part, I sense no deception in you," said Faramir. "But if you desire peace, why bring two companions who would rob Gondor of her lord?"
"I chose them not, exalted Lord Steward" said Tahir. "The Great Khan commanded I bring fourteen companions, two from each of our seven great tribes. I come from the tribe of Fatin, as does my fair blossom. Those contemptible sons of dogs are born of the Suhayb tribe. Maybe their leader want war within our lands as well as your esteemed lord's kingdom?"
"I see," said Faramir thoughtfully. He knew all too well that there were rival factions within Gondor. Maybe the same was true of Harad? They still knew very little about their former enemies. When the Dark Lord had been overthrown, there had been a rebellion in Harad and the ruling Khan had been slaughtered and replaced with one of his former captains. It was with this new leader that a treaty had been signed. "What tribe was your former leader from?" Faramir asked.
"The accursed sons of Suhayb," Tahir replied.
"And the Lord who rules Harad now?"
"He is of my tribe, his father's uncle and my father, may their souls dwell forever in the shade of the oasis, were brothers, most esteemed Lord Faramir."
"I see," said Faramir. Everything suddenly began to make sense. "Unless the King decrees otherwise," he said, "I place you under house arrest until we ascertain the full truth of this matter. I believe you to be innocent of plotting against the King, but I will take no chances with my lord's well well-being."
"Nor should you, esteemed lord," said Tahir. "May the sun's rays never burn you."
A few hours later, Lady Adiva was sitting propped up in bed in a guest chamber in the royal apartments, clutching her tiny newborn daughter. The baby was a little early, but strong and healthy.
"She is beautiful," said Arwen.
"You have been most kind, gracious Lady Arwen," said Adiva. "Alas, that she will grow up fatherless!"
Just then a servant tapped on the door, "The Ambassador asks if he might see his wife?" she said. "The King has released him in order to visit his wife."
"Let him enter," said Arwen.
"How is my fair flower, esteemed Lady Queen?" asked the Ambassador as soon as he was allowed through the door.
"She is well," said Arwen bristling slightly at the man. She had heard that the men of Harad were unloving husbands who treated their womenfolk worse than their beasts.
"And the child?"
"You have a daughter," Arwen sounded rather defensive. "A fair and healthy child whom you can be proud of."
"A daughter!" Long have a desired you a priceless treasure, exalted lady, but I am glad I was not granted such until the days of peace where she can flourish and blossom as she ought."
"Tahir!" cried Lady Adiva at the sound of her husband's voice. Arwen turned to look at her and perceived tears of joy were running down the lady's cheeks.
"My dear love, fairest of flowers! All is well. The exalted Lord Elessar believes my innocence. I shall gift you the finest mare to be found in this land!" Tahir ran towards his wife.
Arwen retreated to the far side of the room and gazed out of the window for a few minutes while the couple were reunited and chattered in their own tongue.
"Esteemed Lady Arwen?" Adiva called after a few minutes.
Arwen returned to the bedside. Tahir bowed low to her. "My fair flower and I would consider it the highest of honours if you would choose a name for our child," he said.
"The honour is mine." Arwen studied the infant's features for a moment or two and then said. "I name her Elwing after my grandmother."
Lady Adiva beamed. "The name is pretty," she said. "May your grandmother always dwell by an oasis!"
Aragorn was trying to decipher an almost illegible document concerning levies on imported grain the next morning, when a knock on his study door interrupted him.
"Come in!" he called.
Faramir entered and bowed low. "I have completed the report you requested concerning yesterday's incident," he said.
"I have not yet had a chance to properly express my gratitude," said Aragorn standing up and warmly clasping Faramir's hands. "You saved my life yesterday with your quick thinking. I am in your debt."
"It is my pleasure to be of service, sire," said Faramir colouring slightly at the King's praise.
"One thing surprises me," said Aragorn. "How did you know the words used in Harad for things like "dagger" and "blood"? I taught you formal courtly greetings, which are not remotely bloodthirsty!"
"I have poor Utbar in the Houses of Healing to thank for the knowledge," said Faramir. "He was none too happy at being asked to talk to me and delighted in telling me in gory detail what he would like to do to his enemies if his limbs were sound. I could only pity the young man. He cannot have seen more than twenty spring times and now he can never walk beneath the trees nor embrace a sweetheart."
"I shall see he is well provided for rather than expecting the Ambassador to pay for his care," said Aragorn. "The young man has unwittingly done great service to Gondor."
"I intend to continue visiting him," said Faramir. "By my third visit he ceased to curse and was, I believe grateful for someone to converse with, even a former enemy. I am so grateful that you taught me the tongue of Harad, my lord, it has proved most useful."
"You are a pleasure to teach," said Aragorn and this time he meant it from the bottom of his heart. What did it matter if a pupil surpassed their teacher? Lore and learning were treasures that should be shared.
Wednesday, July 28, 2010
Wednesday, July 21, 2010
This Perfect Day.
The characters are the property of the Tolkien Estate. This story is written for pleasure not profit.
Most of this chapter was written by Raksha
With thanks to Raksha and Virtuella.
The King and Steward welcomed their second sunny morning in Dol Amroth with a hearty breakfast and a short trip to the wide beaches below Imrahil's castle. Aragorn's backache had gone and both he and Faramir were in good spirits that morning. The sun shone bright in cloudless blue skies over a sea the colour of deep turquoise, a playful breeze ruffled the hair of the King and Princes and their guards. Could the day be any more perfect?
A jellyfish, borne up from southern waters by the summer currents, moved slowly through the breaking waves. Its slow senses alerted to the intruders, and it prepared to reach out and sting the Men's long legs as they bumbled through the water, churning up sand from the ocean floor. But then a deep sense of calm washed over the jellyfish from somewhere else. It chose instead to move away from the Men. Why spoil a perfect day; when there was room enough in this wide shoreline to hide in the warm sea?
Half a league away from the bare feet of little Alphros, the grandson of Imrahil, who swam with his hound and his grandfather and the visiting King and Steward, a bull shark turned in her course. She hungered. Either of the two creatures, the manling or the dog, would make a good meal. Should she stay hidden, or propel herself fast beneath them and snap up her prey?
"No," a voice from the deep signalled, a voice that all its denizens obeyed. "Take food elsewhere", said the voice of the Power. "There are fish in abundance on the other side of the cove." The shark knew better than to argue with Ulmo; so she banked and swam away. The day could still be perfect when she had filled her gullet with squid.
After an hour of swimming, Aragorn and Faramir clambered out onto the sands and stayed under a great tent set out for the pleasure of the Prince's party. They exchanged their sea-soaked britches for clean shirts and breeches, and took refreshment with Imrahil and his pregnant daughter-in-law who had just arrived to join them. They watched little Alphros frolic with his great grey boarhound; and spoke of the towns they had seen, and how they could help the poorest habitations and villages. The day warmed, but never brought too much heat; and the sky turned even more blue, if that could be possible.
Far above them, the winds began to gather, and quarrel, and push the clouds about in an angry fashion. The South Wind refused to give way to the North Wind's bluster, and their fury grew. The East Wind promised rain, the West Wind promised high waters; and they all began to threaten
"Hurricane!"
"No", cried a mighty voice from above the clouds, "Disperse! The day shall remain perfect, for the King of the West and his beloved Steward deserve this respite from care."
The winds hastened away to other, separate climes. None of them wished to anger their own highest Lord.
Below, midday passed with a yawn from the Prince of Ithilien and a contented belch from the Prince of Dol Amroth over a nuncheon of fried clams and fish and honey-cakes. The King stretched out his long legs and dug his bare toes into the sand. "If Arwen and Eldarion were here, the day would be perfect," he observed.
"Indeed," the Steward replied; "I love my mother's land, and your hospitality is without peer, Uncle; but I miss my lady and the children."
"I miss Elphir, who is chasing Corsairs with the fleet," Imrahil replied; "And his brothers are in Rohan with Lothiriel."
Imrahil's daughter-in-law Ancalimë, sniffled; and little Alphros began to cry for his faraway father. The dog whined, sensing their sorrowful mood.
"A day cannot be perfect without one's loved ones to share in it," Aragorn pronounced. "We leave for Minas Tirith tomorrow, Faramir."
From a scarcely imaginable height above them, Arien, the spirit of the Sun herself, heard the words of the King of the West and his friends, and flamed in anger. After all that the Valar had done to give them a Perfect Day, the silly mortals refused to enjoy it! What an Insult to the Powers! "My rays shall sear and burn them!" she cried.
"Peace, Shining One!" came the voice of Manwë. "They can behave like foolish children, these mortals. Rarely are they content, but always they hunger for what they cannot have. Such is their very nature."
Distracted by a crab scuttling across the beach, Alphros ran off in hot pursuit, followed by the dog who now wagged his tail happily. Ancalimë smiled at her son's antics.
"My sons should come home soon," observed Imrahil. "at least I need no longer fear the direct threat of our great Enemy."
Faramir rose from his place beside Aragorn, his eye caught by a pretty pink shell. "I will collect some of these for Elestelle and Elbeth," he said eagerly. "They will love the pretty colours of these tellins."
Aragorn scrambled to his feet to join him. "And how Eldarion will love these razor shells!" he exclaimed. "Look here is a double one! It will be good to show him some of the gifts of the sea. He will appreciate them all the more when we are able to bring him with us."
"I will take some of these scallops and cockle shells for Éowyn to decorate her garden with," Faramir said, selecting the best ones he could find.
"Arwen will love the pink tellins too," said Aragorn, smiling as he found a rose hued one. The two men strolled along the beach laughing and talking.
"See, Shining One," Manwe told Arien." What did I tell you? To these children, joy and sorrow are like the clouds that fleetingly obscure your bright face."
The West Wind stirred merrily; sensing his Lord's approval, and blew lacy clouds across the sky.
"I think we might have a beautiful sunset to end this perfect day," observed Aragorn. "The clouds are high, which portends well."
The Powers smiled benevolently upon two of their most deserving children.
TBC
The characters are the property of the Tolkien Estate. This story is written for pleasure not profit.
Most of this chapter was written by Raksha
With thanks to Raksha and Virtuella.
The King and Steward welcomed their second sunny morning in Dol Amroth with a hearty breakfast and a short trip to the wide beaches below Imrahil's castle. Aragorn's backache had gone and both he and Faramir were in good spirits that morning. The sun shone bright in cloudless blue skies over a sea the colour of deep turquoise, a playful breeze ruffled the hair of the King and Princes and their guards. Could the day be any more perfect?
A jellyfish, borne up from southern waters by the summer currents, moved slowly through the breaking waves. Its slow senses alerted to the intruders, and it prepared to reach out and sting the Men's long legs as they bumbled through the water, churning up sand from the ocean floor. But then a deep sense of calm washed over the jellyfish from somewhere else. It chose instead to move away from the Men. Why spoil a perfect day; when there was room enough in this wide shoreline to hide in the warm sea?
Half a league away from the bare feet of little Alphros, the grandson of Imrahil, who swam with his hound and his grandfather and the visiting King and Steward, a bull shark turned in her course. She hungered. Either of the two creatures, the manling or the dog, would make a good meal. Should she stay hidden, or propel herself fast beneath them and snap up her prey?
"No," a voice from the deep signalled, a voice that all its denizens obeyed. "Take food elsewhere", said the voice of the Power. "There are fish in abundance on the other side of the cove." The shark knew better than to argue with Ulmo; so she banked and swam away. The day could still be perfect when she had filled her gullet with squid.
After an hour of swimming, Aragorn and Faramir clambered out onto the sands and stayed under a great tent set out for the pleasure of the Prince's party. They exchanged their sea-soaked britches for clean shirts and breeches, and took refreshment with Imrahil and his pregnant daughter-in-law who had just arrived to join them. They watched little Alphros frolic with his great grey boarhound; and spoke of the towns they had seen, and how they could help the poorest habitations and villages. The day warmed, but never brought too much heat; and the sky turned even more blue, if that could be possible.
Far above them, the winds began to gather, and quarrel, and push the clouds about in an angry fashion. The South Wind refused to give way to the North Wind's bluster, and their fury grew. The East Wind promised rain, the West Wind promised high waters; and they all began to threaten
"Hurricane!"
"No", cried a mighty voice from above the clouds, "Disperse! The day shall remain perfect, for the King of the West and his beloved Steward deserve this respite from care."
The winds hastened away to other, separate climes. None of them wished to anger their own highest Lord.
Below, midday passed with a yawn from the Prince of Ithilien and a contented belch from the Prince of Dol Amroth over a nuncheon of fried clams and fish and honey-cakes. The King stretched out his long legs and dug his bare toes into the sand. "If Arwen and Eldarion were here, the day would be perfect," he observed.
"Indeed," the Steward replied; "I love my mother's land, and your hospitality is without peer, Uncle; but I miss my lady and the children."
"I miss Elphir, who is chasing Corsairs with the fleet," Imrahil replied; "And his brothers are in Rohan with Lothiriel."
Imrahil's daughter-in-law Ancalimë, sniffled; and little Alphros began to cry for his faraway father. The dog whined, sensing their sorrowful mood.
"A day cannot be perfect without one's loved ones to share in it," Aragorn pronounced. "We leave for Minas Tirith tomorrow, Faramir."
From a scarcely imaginable height above them, Arien, the spirit of the Sun herself, heard the words of the King of the West and his friends, and flamed in anger. After all that the Valar had done to give them a Perfect Day, the silly mortals refused to enjoy it! What an Insult to the Powers! "My rays shall sear and burn them!" she cried.
"Peace, Shining One!" came the voice of Manwë. "They can behave like foolish children, these mortals. Rarely are they content, but always they hunger for what they cannot have. Such is their very nature."
Distracted by a crab scuttling across the beach, Alphros ran off in hot pursuit, followed by the dog who now wagged his tail happily. Ancalimë smiled at her son's antics.
"My sons should come home soon," observed Imrahil. "at least I need no longer fear the direct threat of our great Enemy."
Faramir rose from his place beside Aragorn, his eye caught by a pretty pink shell. "I will collect some of these for Elestelle and Elbeth," he said eagerly. "They will love the pretty colours of these tellins."
Aragorn scrambled to his feet to join him. "And how Eldarion will love these razor shells!" he exclaimed. "Look here is a double one! It will be good to show him some of the gifts of the sea. He will appreciate them all the more when we are able to bring him with us."
"I will take some of these scallops and cockle shells for Éowyn to decorate her garden with," Faramir said, selecting the best ones he could find.
"Arwen will love the pink tellins too," said Aragorn, smiling as he found a rose hued one. The two men strolled along the beach laughing and talking.
"See, Shining One," Manwe told Arien." What did I tell you? To these children, joy and sorrow are like the clouds that fleetingly obscure your bright face."
The West Wind stirred merrily; sensing his Lord's approval, and blew lacy clouds across the sky.
"I think we might have a beautiful sunset to end this perfect day," observed Aragorn. "The clouds are high, which portends well."
The Powers smiled benevolently upon two of their most deserving children.
TBC
Thursday, July 15, 2010
Tongues of Men and of Angels
The characters are the property of the Tolkien Estate. This story is written for pleasure not profit.
With thanks to Virtuella and Raksha.
Though I speak with the tongues of men and of angels, and have not charity, I am become as sounding brass, or a tinkling cymbal. - Bible - 1 Corinthians.13
Aragorn stretched out his long legs and sighed as he picked up yet another document requiring his perusal and signature. He was interrupted by a knock on the door of his study.
“Come in,” he called, expecting a servant with refreshments he had asked for. To his surprise it was his Steward.
“May I ask a favour of you, sire?” said Faramir. He respectfully dipped his head.
“How might I help you, Faramir?” Aragorn pushed the papers to one side. He stood up to stretch his cramped limbs. “Sit down and be easy, I have sent for refreshments.” He gestured towards the couch on the far side of the room. “They always send me sufficient to feed a Hobbit or two!” He sat down again.
Faramir sat, but failed to relax.
“How are you, Faramir?” Aragorn enquired, wondering it the young man’s demeanour indicated that he had finally decided to accept the King’s offer to treat the wounds he knew still caused Faramir pain. “Do your war wounds trouble you?”
“I am well, thank you, sire, “ Faramir said stiffly.
Just then a servant arrived bearing a tray laden with food and drink. Aragorn helped himself to tea and cakes and gestured Faramir to do likewise.
“You have travelled to Harad, have you not sire?” said Faramir.
“I have indeed. It was a strange land, colourful and brutal, and above all, hot! “ The question took Aragorn by surprise. “But I doubt that it is the weather in Harad you desire to discuss with me?”
“My uncle told me, sire, that you can speak the language of Harad.”
Aragorn nodded and looked at Faramir expectantly.
“I was wondering, sire, if you would be so gracious as to teach it to me. As you have invited an Ambassador from Harad to dwell in Minas Tirith. I should like to be able to greet him in his own tongue.”
“That is a gracious gesture, Faramir, but I expect the man will be able to speak Westron.”
“I understand if you are too busy to teach me, sire. I will detain you no longer.” The Steward pushed aside his half eaten slice of cake and rose to his feet.
“Stay, finish your cake at least,” Aragorn protested. “I did not mean that. It is simply that it is a near impossible language to master, unlike any tongue we speak in Gondor, and that is only the spoken form. The written language is even worse. Have you not enough to master with the tongue of the Mark? Your Uncle told me you were determined to become fluent in it before your marriage to Lady Éowyn, which is most commendable.”
“My studies are progressing well, sire,” Faramir replied. “I enjoy learning languages.”
“Come to me after the Council meeting tomorrow, then,” said Aragorn. “I will begin your lessons. I warn you, though, you will find it very difficult.”
Thank you, sire. I am most grateful.” Faramir finished the cake, bowed low and took his leave.
Aragorn sighed again when the door shut, this time in exasperation. He had only been king a few months, but already he was weary of all the bowing and scraping. He had told his Steward only to do it in public, but the man seemed deaf to his plea. And now this request to learn the tongue of Harad! Aragorn could only assume that, as usual, Faramir was diligent and eager to please in his duties. He could but hope that the young man would at least be able to get his tongue around a few simple phrases of greeting without embarrassing himself. He thought back to his own attempts to learn from a friendly trader who had roared with laughter at his pupil’s early mispronunciations. It seemed that instead of saying “Greetings, fellow traveller, where might water be found?” Aragorn had said, “Be gone, you louse, I am a fountain.” Aragorn still blushed at the memory. He inwardly vowed not to laugh at all the mistakes his pupil was likely to make. Why, he would even tell the young man about all his mistakes to put him at his ease! At least it was not a matter of life or death that Faramir should master the language. Aragorn had endeavoured to listen rather than speak during his time in Harad. When speech had been needed he had introduced himself as a merchant from Umbar to explain both his grey eyes and any mispronunciations he might make. How blessed they were that it was now possible to learn the language for pleasure and not as a grim necessity!
Aragorn decided to be a diligent but kindly teacher to his Steward. He would gently correct Faramir’s mistakes and bolster his confidence by praising him if he managed to pronounce any of the difficult phrases correctly.
Faramir arrived promptly for his first lesson. Aragorn decided to test his Steward’s aptitude for languages in general by greeting him in the tongue of Rohan. Faramir did not bat an eyelid but replied in the same tongue, with a perfectly executed greeting and enquiry regarding King and Queen’s good health and the health of his horses.
Aragorn smiled indulgently. Maybe teaching Faramir would be easier than he anticipated. “I will begin by teaching you some of the greetings they use in Harad,” he said. “Elaborate greetings are especially important in their society and are meant sincerely. I suggest you greet the ambassador with these words, Greetings most illustrious guest. May the spirits of your ancestors always walk in the shade of the oasis!”
Aragorn spoke slowly and carefully expecting to need to repeat the phrase several times before Faramir would venture to try it. Instead the Steward repeated it at once.
Faramir shook his head and said “No, that was not correct at all, I mispronounced that.”
“You only stressed the second syllable of ancestors when it should be the first,” said Aragorn looking at the young man in blank amazement. He repeated the phrase. This time Faramir spoke it flawlessly.
By the time the bell rang for the midday meal in the Citadel Faramir had mastered all the greetings in the tongue of Harad as well as enquiries about the weather and the health of the guest and his family. Aragorn was relieved that it was time to eat as he was finding it increasingly difficult not gape open mouthed at his Steward. He supposed the young man simply had a good ear. Learning and remembering the complex phrases was another matter entirely.
“Thank you, sire, I greatly enjoyed my lesson,” Faramir said rewarding his lord with a rare smile. “May I learn more tomorrow?”
“Will you not need time to memorise the phrases you have learned today?” the King enquired.
“I assure you I shall not neglect my other duties, sire.” Faramir looked a trifle hurt.
“I never thought that you would,” said Aragorn. “I will see you tomorrow then,” said Aragorn. “You have done well today.”
The next morning Aragorn greeted his pupil in the full expectation that they would spend the hour going over the same phrases but instead Faramir greeted him using one of the phrases he had taught him the day before.
“May the sun never dazzle your eyes, most esteemed lord!” said Faramir, pronouncing the phrase perfectly.
“Excellent, Faramir!” Aragorn replied. “You have done well to remember one of the greetings.”
“I fear I have forgotten the last phrase that you taught me yesterday,” said Faramir looking rather displeased with himself.
“You are only human,” said Aragorn, expecting that his Steward had forgotten more than one phrase, but no, Faramir recalled them all perfectly and eagerly learned many more. It seemed that the young man had a remarkable aptitude for languages, which rivalled that of his King’s!
“You look sombre, sire, I hope I have not displeased you?” said Faramir when the lesson ended. “I shall try harder next time.”
“I am just a little tired, Faramir, I am delighted with your progress,” Aragorn assured the younger man.
**
“I shall have to give Faramir another lesson tomorrow,” Aragorn told Arwen after they dined that night.
“Why are you so gloomy at the prospect? I thought you liked your Steward?” said Arwen.
“I do. I find him somewhat too reticent, but he is a good man.”
“Then he makes a poor pupil?”
“Quite the contrary! He is a brilliant linguist who only needs to hear a phrase once or twice to master it. At this speed, he will soon speak the tongue of Harad better than I do and I dwelled there for several months!”
Arwen laughed. “Why, Estel, I do believe that you are jealous!” she exclaimed. ”You do not like Faramir surpassing you.”
Aragorn glared at her. “Jealous, of course not!” he protested. “Why should I be jealous? I was brought up amongst Elves who surpassed me in all things!”
“But they were Elves, not Men. You are used to excelling amongst your own kind,” said the Queen.
“I suppose I am,” Aragorn conceded.
“And you do,” said Arwen. She moved closer to him on the couch and kissed him tenderly. Eagerly, he returned her kiss.
“No other kisses could be so sweet from man or Elf!” said Arwen. “You should pity poor Faramir, bereft of kin and yet to wed. He has only obscure tongues for company tonight. “Are there not any Haradrim prisoners who remained behind that Faramir could practise his linguistic skills with?”
“A handful of the wounded remained in the City,” said Aragorn. “I shall enquire as to their whereabouts. Yes, I do feel sorry for Faramir, he has endured things that no man should and he does not have such consolations as I do.” He kissed Arwen again and forgot everything save the joy of being in her arms.
**
The next day Aragorn sent for Tarostar, the Warden of the Houses of Healing and enquired of him as to what had become of the prisoners from Harad. The Warden informed him that a few still remained within the Houses, their wounds having left them too severely crippled to travel home and having no place to go within the City.
“I am hoping that the new Ambassador will do something to help these poor fellows, sire,” said the Warden.
“So am I,” said Aragorn. “I hope first that at least one of them might help Lord Faramir in his desire to master the tongue of Harad.”
Tarostar laughed. “Rather our Steward than I then! I find it an impossible language to learn, but then Lord Faramir has always been something of a scholar.”
“Lord Denethor was a great lore master. He must have been pleased that his son followed in his footsteps,” said Aragorn.
The Warden shook his head sadly. ”Alas, no,” he said. “Though he loved lore himself, the old Steward wanted his sons to be warriors, not scholars. Maybe he grew to distrust lore, as nothing was able to save the Lady Finduilas. Given the times we were living in, I can understand, but I always felt we had to use more than weapons to fight against the Dark Lord, otherwise we would end up no better than the Orcs we fought against! I believe that Lord Faramir could see that while Lord Denethor could not. I rejoice that we now live in happier days where a fine young man with a love of lore like our Lord Faramir might flourish.”
“Indeed,” said Aragorn. “I am well pleased with my Steward.”
“Well if you will excuse me, my lord, I must return to my patients,” said the Warden. ”I fear I am letting my tongue run away with me as much as our good Dame Ioreth, but Lord Faramir’s welfare is dear to my heart. I will always be grateful to you for saving his life, sire.”
“Too many good men perished. I am glad that I was able to save one of them,” said Aragorn.
“You saved the very best of them, my lord,” said Warden. He bowed and took his leave.
Aragorn picked up a document from the top of the pile as soon as the man had left and stared at it unseeing. How could he resent Faramir’s aptitude for languages? He was as bad as Denethor! Aragorn thought of his childhood. A loving mother had raised him and Master Elrond had been the kindest of foster fathers. Not only had he been taught to fight as soon as he was old enough, but encouraged to learn the healing arts, as well as the vast lore that the libraries of Rivendell contained. Poor Faramir had been bereft of a mother at an early age, denied his father’s love and the scholarly pursuits that he craved. He had lost the brother he loved in the war and freely given up the rule of Gondor to Aragorn. Yet despite knowing all this, Aragorn still felt a nagging resentment that his pupil threatened to surpass him.
Faramir received the suggestion that he visit the prisoners of war from Harad with more enthusiasm that Aragorn expected.
“I will be pleased to have a chance to practise my pronunciation,” the Steward said. “Also I will be causing you less trouble.”
“You are a pleasure to teach,” Aragorn assured him swiftly. “I shall continue our lessons until the Ambassador arrives next month.”
Faramir continued to pick up the language of Harad with amazing speed while Aragorn endeavoured to teach him with as much enthusiasm as he could muster. Faramir had been visiting a native of Harad who had lost both arms and a leg during the battle for Minas Tirith. From what the King could gather of these visits from his Steward’s account, the man was unsurprisingly angry and bitter. Aragorn wondered if Faramir would learn anything from him at all. Of the other prisoners who lingered in the Houses of Healing; one had lost his wits, while another refused to converse with his captors. The young man who had agreed to talk to Faramir appeared to be so doing out of boredom rather than any desire to improve relations between the two realms.
If this was how those they had tried to heal reacted, Aragorn wondered if it were a good idea after all to invite an Ambassador. But how could relations between Gondor and Harad ever improve if there were no contact between the two peoples? On the day of the Ambassador’s arrival, the King confided his apprehensions to his Steward and Faramir admitted that he shared them.
Aragorn sat on his throne to receive their guest with Faramir seated in the Steward’s chair. Guards kept a watchful eye on the proceedings.
The ambassador entered alone. He was a tall man with a black beard, olive skin and brown eyes.He wore flowing robes of purple and dark blue rather than the scarlet warriors' garb with which Aragorn and Faramir were both painfully familiar. The man prostrated himself low before the throne.
“I bring greetings from the exalted and esteemed Khan of all Harad to the most excellent High King of the Western Realms,” he said in heavily accented but fluent Westron. “I am your most humble servant, Tahir, son on of Nasih, of the tribe of Wakil.”
“May the sun never dazzle your eyes and stars light your path,” Aragorn replied. “Rise friend and be welcome. May this day herald a new era of peace between us.”
“This is an auspicious day as glorious as an undiscovered oasis,” said Tahir. “The spirits of many I loved dearly now dwell in eternal shade. I would have my sons know peace, not war.”
“I should like to invite you to dine with me tomorrow and the fair blossoms of your garden to dine with my Queen,” said Aragorn.
“I gladly accept your most gracious invitation, esteemed Lord King,” said Tahir. “Like you, I choose but one fair flower.” He bowed again and prepared to take his leave.
“May the sun never dazzle your eyes, most excellent one until our next meeting!” said Faramir in the tongue of Harad.
Tahir smiled and returned the greeting.
“He seems a much more agreeable man than I had expected,” said Aragorn as soon as he was alone with the Steward. “I was surprised that he spoke our tongue so well and he does not appear to keep a Harem.”
“Maybe I should not have spoken to him in his language then?” said Faramir.
“I believe the gesture pleased our new Ambassador,” said Aragorn. “It will be interesting to see if our favourable impressions persist when we have a longer conversation with him on the morrow.”
In order to avoid any possible embarrassment to either side over the food being served, the dinner for the ambassador was an informal affair. The guests were served from dishes on a table at the side of the room and then sat in groups at small tables.
Together with the Ambassador came several of his entourage, while Aragorn and Faramir were discretely accompanied by guards. Several lords and captains had also been invited to meet the Ambassador. Meanwhile in the royal couple’s private quarters, Arwen was entertaining the ambassador’s wife, aided by a woman from the Houses of Healing who spoke some of the Harradic tongue.
Aragorn was glad of the catering arrangements he had chosen when he saw the Ambassador eagerly consuming large quantities of a spicy dish, which Aragorn recalled only to well from his travels. A single bite sufficed to set his mouth afire. King of the West instead of a lonely traveller, Aragorn smiled and quaffed some wine to cool his throat. The Southrons enjoyed their pepper even more than he remembered. He was glad to be able to turn his attention to the cold meats served in the Gondorian fashion. Faramir was doing likewise after a discreet word of warning from the King concerning the more exotic dishes on offer.
“My fair flower was very much looking forward to meeting your esteemed Queen,” said the Ambassador. “These past weeks have been hard for her, needing to travel as she nurtures my seed and grows greatly.”
“I hope your fair lady will soon be safely delivered,” said Aragorn. “The midwives from the Houses of Healing would be happy to assist her.”
“We plan to give our latest blossom a name from your fair land,” said the ambassador. “He or she will bear a lasting token of the new peace between us.”
“The Houses are currently home to some of your countrymen,” said Aragorn. “We captured them during the war. They have long since been free to depart, but are too crippled to do so as result of their wounds.”
“I will pay for them to continue to be cared for here,” said Tahir.
“Would they not prefer to return home?” Faramir asked.
The Ambassador laughed bitterly. “By taking them prisoner, gracious King, you saved their lives. In my homeland, if a man is badly injured in battle, he falls on his own sword, or a comrade despatches him if he can no longer fight for his country. Lord Sauron demanded a heavy tribute and those that could not pay him service forfeited their lives. I fear it will take time for things to change.”
Faramir repressed a shudder. Friendly and eager to please Tahir might be, but he came from a land whose invading warriors Faramir had fought since he was old enough to wield sword and bow. He had lost many good comrades to the warriors of Harad. An image of one of his Rangers cleft almost in twain by a Southron sword swam before his eyes. “I think I will have some dessert,” he said.
“What shall I fetch you, my lord?” a hovering servant enquired.
“I think I will stretch my legs,” said Faramir. The Steward wandered over to the table piled high with exotic fruits, custards and syllabubs. Faramir felt slightly nauseous at the memories that been stirred within him and was loth to eat any more just yet.
Two of the Ambassador’s entourage were by the table chattering to each other in their own tongue.
“Is your dagger sharp?” one asked.
Faramir ignored them, assuming they were concerned about slicing fruit, but both men chose spiced custards to eat.
“Be careful,” said the other. “We are not alone.”
“The fools do not understand us,” said the first man. “I brought two blades for good measure. The conqueror’s days are numbered. Tonight he drinks his own blood!”
Faramir realised to his horror that these two were planning to murder Aragorn. Trying to appear as nonchalant as possible, he picked up a peach from the table and made his way back to his place, never taking his eyes from the would be killers.
“Shall I slice that for you, my lord?” asked a servant.
“No thank you.” Faramir brushed the man aside. Just then one of the Haradrim reached inside his flowing robes.
“Guards, arrest those men!” Faramir cried.
The guards raced to obey Faramir’s orders.
“This is an outrage!” the ambassador protested. “Release my companions at once!”
“They plan to kill the King,” Faramir cried.
Hearing the commotion, more guards raced to the scene. They seized the ambassador and the remainder of his entourage.
“How dare you?” Tahir protested. “We came here in peacefulness. We offer not harm to your esteemed majesty.”
“You call this no harm?” A guard held up a long handled curved dagger with a serrated blade. “It is punishable by death to carry a concealed weapon in the presence of the King.”
“Explain yourself, Ratib,” said the ambassador sternly.
“The enemy of the Lord of Gifts deserves to choke in his own blood!” said Ratib in his own tongue. “Let him perish as my brothers were slain!”
“A curse upon him and all of his kind!” cried the second would-be assassin, while a guard relieved him of an equally evil looking blade. He spat in Aragorn’s direction.
“Mercy, most gracious and esteemed Lord King!” Tahir managed to break free from the grasp on the guard who was restraining him. He flung himself at Aragorn’s feet.. “Let not your wrath fall upon my fair flower and fruits. Shave my beard and tear my robe, do with me as you will, but harm not them! Shame not my fragrant flower and let my sons live! They are but babes.”
“What do you take me for?” Aragorn asked angrily. “We do not harm innocent women and children in my realms. They will be shown more courtesy than you have shown us with your wicked plot.”
“I plot nothing. I want peace, between our lands friends. “ Tahir’s Westron became increasingly broken in his agitation.
A sudden horrible thought struck Aragorn. The ambassador’s wife was with his Arwen! What if her pregnancy were but a pretext and she was concealing weapons beneath the flowing robes that the Haradrim wore? “See that the prisoners are taken into custody,” he ordered Faramir. With that he ran from the room, calling for more guards to join him.
Aragorn drew his sword when he reached his apartments. “Wait there,” he ordered the guards. He flung the door wide and hastened within calling his wife’s name loudly.
“Whatever is the matter Estel?” Arwen appeared from her private sitting room.
“Where is the ambassador’s wife?” Aragorn demanded.
“Lady Adiva? She is resting. The poor woman should never have undertaken so long a journey in her condition.”
“Her condition? She may not be with child at all, but instead be concealing weapons.”
“What nonsense, Estel! She permitted me to feel the baby kicking as well as Dame Ivorwen from the Houses. She was curious about my Elven abilities and I was able to tell she was carrying a strong healthy child who was eager to be born. Whatever is all this about? You will frighten the poor lady bursting in like this!”
“She might well be frightened,” Aragorn said grimly. “Her husband and his companions were planning to murder me!”
“My husband is no assassin!” A foreign sounding voice called.
Aragorn gripped his sword hilt tighter as its owner appeared, an olive skinned woman who waddled across the room in great agitation.
“What have you done with my husband?” the woman asked. “Who are you?”
“I am the King,” Aragorn replied. “Your husband is under arrest, my lady.”
The woman gave a cry in her own language and sank senseless to the ground.
Aragorn bent over her, looking concerned. Dame Ivorwen, together with a woman who appeared to be Lady Adiva’s maid, came running at the sound of her cry. The maid, oblivious as to who Aragorn was, started screaming curses at him in her native tongue. Dame Ivorwen tried vainly to calm her.
“She has fainted,” said Aragorn. He scooped the woman up and carried her to the couch in Arwen’s solar. While the other women fussed around her, she opened her eyes and groaned loudly. Aragorn took Arwen to one side and explained to her all that happened.
The Queen listened gravely, her eyes wide with horror.
“It was when the so called ambassador mentioned his wife that I feared you might be in danger,” he explained. I shall send the woman and her children back to Harad.”
Dame Ivorwen approached them looking grave. “ I believe the Ambassador’s wife might be about to give birth, my lord, my lady, though I would need to examine her properly to be certain,” she said. “She has started to have strong contractions.”
“I will bid the guards carry her on a litter to the Houses of Healing,” said Aragorn.
“Your pardon, sire, but I do not think she should be moved, ”said Dame Ivorwen. “I doubt she could reach the Houses in time and the journey would be most unpleasant for the poor lady.”
“She shall stay here of course,” said Arwen before her husband could answer. Her tone permitted no argument.
“I must return to the prisoners,” said Aragorn. “My guards will remain in case of any threat to you.”
“Well, they can wait outside,” Arwen said firmly. “Whatever her husband might have done, Lady Adiva deserves some privacy for the birth.”
“I ask you only to be careful,” said Aragorn as he took his leave.
Arwen returned to the solar where Lady Adiva lay on the couch .She was trembling.
“There is no need to be afraid,” Arwen said kindly. “Your baby will soon be with you.”
“Then what will become of us?” cried Lady Adiva. “I be shamed before my husband ere we die, and my precious jewels enslaved! My lord never hurt yours!”
Arwen grasped the woman’s hand. “The King would never abuse women and children thus, and your husband will be given a fair hearing. I place you and your children under my personal protection.”
“You are most gracious, esteemed Lady Arwen.” Lady Adiva managed a faint smile.
**
Meanwhile Faramir had personally searched the ambassador in deference to his rank and found no weapons on him. Neither had the guards found any further weapons on members of his entourage. Faramir told the guards to take the two would be assassins to prison, but felt loth to send the others there until he had consulted with the King.
He now sat with Tahir in an anteroom near the reception hall. A guard was stationed outside, but the two were alone together. “I desire peace, I would not harm your esteemed Lord King,” said Tahir yet again. He was less agitated now and was again speaking fluent Westron.
“For my part, I sense no deception in you,” said Faramir. “But if you desire peace, why bring two companions who would rob Gondor of her lord?”
“I chose them not, exalted Lord Steward” said Tahir. “The Great Khan commanded I bring fourteen companions, two from each of our seven great tribes. I come from the tribe of Fatin, as does my fair blossom. Those contemptible sons of dogs are born of the Suhayb tribe. Maybe their leader want war within our lands as well as your esteemed lord’s kingdom?”
“I see,” said Faramir thoughtfully. He knew all too well that there were rival factions within Gondor. Maybe the same was true of Harad? They still knew very little about their former enemies. When the Dark Lord had been overthrown, there had been a rebellion in Harad and the ruling Khan had been slaughtered and replaced with one of his former captains. It was with this new leader that a treaty had been signed. “What tribe was your former leader from?” Faramir asked.
“The accursed sons of Suhayb,” Tahir replied.
“And the Lord who rules Harad now?”
“He is of my tribe, his father’s uncle and my father, may their souls dwell forever in the shade of the oasis, were brothers, most esteemed Lord Faramir.”
“I see,” said Faramir. Everything suddenly began to make sense. “Unless the King decrees otherwise,” he said, “I place you under house arrest until we ascertain the full truth of this matter. I believe you to be innocent of plotting against the King, but I will take no chances with my lord’s well well-being.”
“Nor should you, esteemed lord,” said Tahir. “May the sun’s rays never burn you.”
**
A few hours later, Lady Adiva was sitting propped up in bed in a guest chamber in the royal apartments, clutching her tiny newborn daughter. The baby was a little early, but strong and healthy.
“She is beautiful,” said Arwen.
“You have been most kind, gracious Lady Arwen,” said Adiva. “Alas, that she will grow up fatherless!”
Just then a servant tapped on the door, “The Ambassador asks if he might see his wife?” she said. “The King has released him in order to visit his wife.”
“Let him enter,” said Arwen.
“How is my fair flower, esteemed Lady Queen?” asked the Ambassador as soon as he was allowed through the door.
“She is well,” said Arwen bristling slightly at the man. She had heard that the men of Harad were unloving husbands who treated their womenfolk worse than their beasts.
“And the child?”
“You have a daughter,” Arwen sounded rather defensive. “A fair and healthy child whom you can be proud of.”
“A daughter!” Long have a desired you a priceless treasure, exalted lady, but I am glad I was not granted such until the days of peace where she can flourish and blossom as she ought.”
“Tahir!” cried Lady Adiva at the sound of her husband’s voice. Arwen turned to look at her and perceived tears of joy were running down the lady’s cheeks.
“My dear love, fairest of flowers! All is well. The exalted Lord Elessar believes my innocence.” Tahir ran towards his wife.
Arwen retreated to the far side of the room and gazed out of the window for a few minutes while the couple were reunited and chattered in their own tongue.
“Esteemed Lady Arwen?” Adiva called after a few minutes.
Arwen returned to the bedside. Tahir bowed low to her. “My fair flower and I would consider it the highest of honours if you would choose a name for our child,” he said.
“The honour is mine.” Arwen studied the infant’s features for a moment or two and then said. “I name her Elwing after my grandmother.”
Lady Adiva beamed. “The name is pretty,” she said. “May your grandmother always dwell by an oasis!”
**
Aragorn was trying to decipher an almost illegible document concerning levies on imported grain the next morning, when a knock on his study door interrupted him.
“Come in!” he called.
Faramir entered and bowed low. ”I have completed the report you requested concerning yesterday’s incident,” he said.
“I have not yet had a chance to properly express my gratitude,” said Aragorn standing up and warmly clasping Faramir’s hands. “You saved my life yesterday with your quick thinking. I am in your debt.”
“It is my pleasure to be of service, sire,” said Faramir colouring slightly at the King’s praise.
“One thing surprises me,” said Aragorn. “How did you know the words used in Harad for things like “dagger” and “blood”? I taught you formal courtly greetings, which are not remotely bloodthirsty!”
“I have poor Utbar in the Houses of Healing to thank for the knowledge,” said Faramir. “He was none too happy at being asked to talk to me and delighted in telling me in gory detail what he would like to do to his enemies if his limbs were sound. I could only pity the young man. He cannot have seen more than twenty spring times and now he can never walk beneath the trees nor embrace a sweetheart.”
“I shall see he is well provided for rather than expecting the Ambassador to pay for his care,” said Aragorn. “The young man has unwittingly done great service to Gondor.”
“I intend to continue visiting him,” said Faramir. “By my third visit he ceased to curse and was, I believe grateful for someone to converse with, even a former enemy. I am so grateful that you taught me the tongue of Harad, my lord, it has proved most useful.”
“You are a pleasure to teach,” said Aragorn and this time he meant it from the bottom of his heart. What did it matter if a pupil surpassed their teacher? Lore and learning were treasures that should be shared.
The characters are the property of the Tolkien Estate. This story is written for pleasure not profit.
With thanks to Virtuella and Raksha.
Though I speak with the tongues of men and of angels, and have not charity, I am become as sounding brass, or a tinkling cymbal. - Bible - 1 Corinthians.13
Aragorn stretched out his long legs and sighed as he picked up yet another document requiring his perusal and signature. He was interrupted by a knock on the door of his study.
“Come in,” he called, expecting a servant with refreshments he had asked for. To his surprise it was his Steward.
“May I ask a favour of you, sire?” said Faramir. He respectfully dipped his head.
“How might I help you, Faramir?” Aragorn pushed the papers to one side. He stood up to stretch his cramped limbs. “Sit down and be easy, I have sent for refreshments.” He gestured towards the couch on the far side of the room. “They always send me sufficient to feed a Hobbit or two!” He sat down again.
Faramir sat, but failed to relax.
“How are you, Faramir?” Aragorn enquired, wondering it the young man’s demeanour indicated that he had finally decided to accept the King’s offer to treat the wounds he knew still caused Faramir pain. “Do your war wounds trouble you?”
“I am well, thank you, sire, “ Faramir said stiffly.
Just then a servant arrived bearing a tray laden with food and drink. Aragorn helped himself to tea and cakes and gestured Faramir to do likewise.
“You have travelled to Harad, have you not sire?” said Faramir.
“I have indeed. It was a strange land, colourful and brutal, and above all, hot! “ The question took Aragorn by surprise. “But I doubt that it is the weather in Harad you desire to discuss with me?”
“My uncle told me, sire, that you can speak the language of Harad.”
Aragorn nodded and looked at Faramir expectantly.
“I was wondering, sire, if you would be so gracious as to teach it to me. As you have invited an Ambassador from Harad to dwell in Minas Tirith. I should like to be able to greet him in his own tongue.”
“That is a gracious gesture, Faramir, but I expect the man will be able to speak Westron.”
“I understand if you are too busy to teach me, sire. I will detain you no longer.” The Steward pushed aside his half eaten slice of cake and rose to his feet.
“Stay, finish your cake at least,” Aragorn protested. “I did not mean that. It is simply that it is a near impossible language to master, unlike any tongue we speak in Gondor, and that is only the spoken form. The written language is even worse. Have you not enough to master with the tongue of the Mark? Your Uncle told me you were determined to become fluent in it before your marriage to Lady Éowyn, which is most commendable.”
“My studies are progressing well, sire,” Faramir replied. “I enjoy learning languages.”
“Come to me after the Council meeting tomorrow, then,” said Aragorn. “I will begin your lessons. I warn you, though, you will find it very difficult.”
Thank you, sire. I am most grateful.” Faramir finished the cake, bowed low and took his leave.
Aragorn sighed again when the door shut, this time in exasperation. He had only been king a few months, but already he was weary of all the bowing and scraping. He had told his Steward only to do it in public, but the man seemed deaf to his plea. And now this request to learn the tongue of Harad! Aragorn could only assume that, as usual, Faramir was diligent and eager to please in his duties. He could but hope that the young man would at least be able to get his tongue around a few simple phrases of greeting without embarrassing himself. He thought back to his own attempts to learn from a friendly trader who had roared with laughter at his pupil’s early mispronunciations. It seemed that instead of saying “Greetings, fellow traveller, where might water be found?” Aragorn had said, “Be gone, you louse, I am a fountain.” Aragorn still blushed at the memory. He inwardly vowed not to laugh at all the mistakes his pupil was likely to make. Why, he would even tell the young man about all his mistakes to put him at his ease! At least it was not a matter of life or death that Faramir should master the language. Aragorn had endeavoured to listen rather than speak during his time in Harad. When speech had been needed he had introduced himself as a merchant from Umbar to explain both his grey eyes and any mispronunciations he might make. How blessed they were that it was now possible to learn the language for pleasure and not as a grim necessity!
Aragorn decided to be a diligent but kindly teacher to his Steward. He would gently correct Faramir’s mistakes and bolster his confidence by praising him if he managed to pronounce any of the difficult phrases correctly.
Faramir arrived promptly for his first lesson. Aragorn decided to test his Steward’s aptitude for languages in general by greeting him in the tongue of Rohan. Faramir did not bat an eyelid but replied in the same tongue, with a perfectly executed greeting and enquiry regarding King and Queen’s good health and the health of his horses.
Aragorn smiled indulgently. Maybe teaching Faramir would be easier than he anticipated. “I will begin by teaching you some of the greetings they use in Harad,” he said. “Elaborate greetings are especially important in their society and are meant sincerely. I suggest you greet the ambassador with these words, Greetings most illustrious guest. May the spirits of your ancestors always walk in the shade of the oasis!”
Aragorn spoke slowly and carefully expecting to need to repeat the phrase several times before Faramir would venture to try it. Instead the Steward repeated it at once.
Faramir shook his head and said “No, that was not correct at all, I mispronounced that.”
“You only stressed the second syllable of ancestors when it should be the first,” said Aragorn looking at the young man in blank amazement. He repeated the phrase. This time Faramir spoke it flawlessly.
By the time the bell rang for the midday meal in the Citadel Faramir had mastered all the greetings in the tongue of Harad as well as enquiries about the weather and the health of the guest and his family. Aragorn was relieved that it was time to eat as he was finding it increasingly difficult not gape open mouthed at his Steward. He supposed the young man simply had a good ear. Learning and remembering the complex phrases was another matter entirely.
“Thank you, sire, I greatly enjoyed my lesson,” Faramir said rewarding his lord with a rare smile. “May I learn more tomorrow?”
“Will you not need time to memorise the phrases you have learned today?” the King enquired.
“I assure you I shall not neglect my other duties, sire.” Faramir looked a trifle hurt.
“I never thought that you would,” said Aragorn. “I will see you tomorrow then,” said Aragorn. “You have done well today.”
The next morning Aragorn greeted his pupil in the full expectation that they would spend the hour going over the same phrases but instead Faramir greeted him using one of the phrases he had taught him the day before.
“May the sun never dazzle your eyes, most esteemed lord!” said Faramir, pronouncing the phrase perfectly.
“Excellent, Faramir!” Aragorn replied. “You have done well to remember one of the greetings.”
“I fear I have forgotten the last phrase that you taught me yesterday,” said Faramir looking rather displeased with himself.
“You are only human,” said Aragorn, expecting that his Steward had forgotten more than one phrase, but no, Faramir recalled them all perfectly and eagerly learned many more. It seemed that the young man had a remarkable aptitude for languages, which rivalled that of his King’s!
“You look sombre, sire, I hope I have not displeased you?” said Faramir when the lesson ended. “I shall try harder next time.”
“I am just a little tired, Faramir, I am delighted with your progress,” Aragorn assured the younger man.
**
“I shall have to give Faramir another lesson tomorrow,” Aragorn told Arwen after they dined that night.
“Why are you so gloomy at the prospect? I thought you liked your Steward?” said Arwen.
“I do. I find him somewhat too reticent, but he is a good man.”
“Then he makes a poor pupil?”
“Quite the contrary! He is a brilliant linguist who only needs to hear a phrase once or twice to master it. At this speed, he will soon speak the tongue of Harad better than I do and I dwelled there for several months!”
Arwen laughed. “Why, Estel, I do believe that you are jealous!” she exclaimed. ”You do not like Faramir surpassing you.”
Aragorn glared at her. “Jealous, of course not!” he protested. “Why should I be jealous? I was brought up amongst Elves who surpassed me in all things!”
“But they were Elves, not Men. You are used to excelling amongst your own kind,” said the Queen.
“I suppose I am,” Aragorn conceded.
“And you do,” said Arwen. She moved closer to him on the couch and kissed him tenderly. Eagerly, he returned her kiss.
“No other kisses could be so sweet from man or Elf!” said Arwen. “You should pity poor Faramir, bereft of kin and yet to wed. He has only obscure tongues for company tonight. “Are there not any Haradrim prisoners who remained behind that Faramir could practise his linguistic skills with?”
“A handful of the wounded remained in the City,” said Aragorn. “I shall enquire as to their whereabouts. Yes, I do feel sorry for Faramir, he has endured things that no man should and he does not have such consolations as I do.” He kissed Arwen again and forgot everything save the joy of being in her arms.
**
The next day Aragorn sent for Tarostar, the Warden of the Houses of Healing and enquired of him as to what had become of the prisoners from Harad. The Warden informed him that a few still remained within the Houses, their wounds having left them too severely crippled to travel home and having no place to go within the City.
“I am hoping that the new Ambassador will do something to help these poor fellows, sire,” said the Warden.
“So am I,” said Aragorn. “I hope first that at least one of them might help Lord Faramir in his desire to master the tongue of Harad.”
Tarostar laughed. “Rather our Steward than I then! I find it an impossible language to learn, but then Lord Faramir has always been something of a scholar.”
“Lord Denethor was a great lore master. He must have been pleased that his son followed in his footsteps,” said Aragorn.
The Warden shook his head sadly. ”Alas, no,” he said. “Though he loved lore himself, the old Steward wanted his sons to be warriors, not scholars. Maybe he grew to distrust lore, as nothing was able to save the Lady Finduilas. Given the times we were living in, I can understand, but I always felt we had to use more than weapons to fight against the Dark Lord, otherwise we would end up no better than the Orcs we fought against! I believe that Lord Faramir could see that while Lord Denethor could not. I rejoice that we now live in happier days where a fine young man with a love of lore like our Lord Faramir might flourish.”
“Indeed,” said Aragorn. “I am well pleased with my Steward.”
“Well if you will excuse me, my lord, I must return to my patients,” said the Warden. ”I fear I am letting my tongue run away with me as much as our good Dame Ioreth, but Lord Faramir’s welfare is dear to my heart. I will always be grateful to you for saving his life, sire.”
“Too many good men perished. I am glad that I was able to save one of them,” said Aragorn.
“You saved the very best of them, my lord,” said Warden. He bowed and took his leave.
Aragorn picked up a document from the top of the pile as soon as the man had left and stared at it unseeing. How could he resent Faramir’s aptitude for languages? He was as bad as Denethor! Aragorn thought of his childhood. A loving mother had raised him and Master Elrond had been the kindest of foster fathers. Not only had he been taught to fight as soon as he was old enough, but encouraged to learn the healing arts, as well as the vast lore that the libraries of Rivendell contained. Poor Faramir had been bereft of a mother at an early age, denied his father’s love and the scholarly pursuits that he craved. He had lost the brother he loved in the war and freely given up the rule of Gondor to Aragorn. Yet despite knowing all this, Aragorn still felt a nagging resentment that his pupil threatened to surpass him.
Faramir received the suggestion that he visit the prisoners of war from Harad with more enthusiasm that Aragorn expected.
“I will be pleased to have a chance to practise my pronunciation,” the Steward said. “Also I will be causing you less trouble.”
“You are a pleasure to teach,” Aragorn assured him swiftly. “I shall continue our lessons until the Ambassador arrives next month.”
Faramir continued to pick up the language of Harad with amazing speed while Aragorn endeavoured to teach him with as much enthusiasm as he could muster. Faramir had been visiting a native of Harad who had lost both arms and a leg during the battle for Minas Tirith. From what the King could gather of these visits from his Steward’s account, the man was unsurprisingly angry and bitter. Aragorn wondered if Faramir would learn anything from him at all. Of the other prisoners who lingered in the Houses of Healing; one had lost his wits, while another refused to converse with his captors. The young man who had agreed to talk to Faramir appeared to be so doing out of boredom rather than any desire to improve relations between the two realms.
If this was how those they had tried to heal reacted, Aragorn wondered if it were a good idea after all to invite an Ambassador. But how could relations between Gondor and Harad ever improve if there were no contact between the two peoples? On the day of the Ambassador’s arrival, the King confided his apprehensions to his Steward and Faramir admitted that he shared them.
Aragorn sat on his throne to receive their guest with Faramir seated in the Steward’s chair. Guards kept a watchful eye on the proceedings.
The ambassador entered alone. He was a tall man with a black beard, olive skin and brown eyes.He wore flowing robes of purple and dark blue rather than the scarlet warriors' garb with which Aragorn and Faramir were both painfully familiar. The man prostrated himself low before the throne.
“I bring greetings from the exalted and esteemed Khan of all Harad to the most excellent High King of the Western Realms,” he said in heavily accented but fluent Westron. “I am your most humble servant, Tahir, son on of Nasih, of the tribe of Wakil.”
“May the sun never dazzle your eyes and stars light your path,” Aragorn replied. “Rise friend and be welcome. May this day herald a new era of peace between us.”
“This is an auspicious day as glorious as an undiscovered oasis,” said Tahir. “The spirits of many I loved dearly now dwell in eternal shade. I would have my sons know peace, not war.”
“I should like to invite you to dine with me tomorrow and the fair blossoms of your garden to dine with my Queen,” said Aragorn.
“I gladly accept your most gracious invitation, esteemed Lord King,” said Tahir. “Like you, I choose but one fair flower.” He bowed again and prepared to take his leave.
“May the sun never dazzle your eyes, most excellent one until our next meeting!” said Faramir in the tongue of Harad.
Tahir smiled and returned the greeting.
“He seems a much more agreeable man than I had expected,” said Aragorn as soon as he was alone with the Steward. “I was surprised that he spoke our tongue so well and he does not appear to keep a Harem.”
“Maybe I should not have spoken to him in his language then?” said Faramir.
“I believe the gesture pleased our new Ambassador,” said Aragorn. “It will be interesting to see if our favourable impressions persist when we have a longer conversation with him on the morrow.”
In order to avoid any possible embarrassment to either side over the food being served, the dinner for the ambassador was an informal affair. The guests were served from dishes on a table at the side of the room and then sat in groups at small tables.
Together with the Ambassador came several of his entourage, while Aragorn and Faramir were discretely accompanied by guards. Several lords and captains had also been invited to meet the Ambassador. Meanwhile in the royal couple’s private quarters, Arwen was entertaining the ambassador’s wife, aided by a woman from the Houses of Healing who spoke some of the Harradic tongue.
Aragorn was glad of the catering arrangements he had chosen when he saw the Ambassador eagerly consuming large quantities of a spicy dish, which Aragorn recalled only to well from his travels. A single bite sufficed to set his mouth afire. King of the West instead of a lonely traveller, Aragorn smiled and quaffed some wine to cool his throat. The Southrons enjoyed their pepper even more than he remembered. He was glad to be able to turn his attention to the cold meats served in the Gondorian fashion. Faramir was doing likewise after a discreet word of warning from the King concerning the more exotic dishes on offer.
“My fair flower was very much looking forward to meeting your esteemed Queen,” said the Ambassador. “These past weeks have been hard for her, needing to travel as she nurtures my seed and grows greatly.”
“I hope your fair lady will soon be safely delivered,” said Aragorn. “The midwives from the Houses of Healing would be happy to assist her.”
“We plan to give our latest blossom a name from your fair land,” said the ambassador. “He or she will bear a lasting token of the new peace between us.”
“The Houses are currently home to some of your countrymen,” said Aragorn. “We captured them during the war. They have long since been free to depart, but are too crippled to do so as result of their wounds.”
“I will pay for them to continue to be cared for here,” said Tahir.
“Would they not prefer to return home?” Faramir asked.
The Ambassador laughed bitterly. “By taking them prisoner, gracious King, you saved their lives. In my homeland, if a man is badly injured in battle, he falls on his own sword, or a comrade despatches him if he can no longer fight for his country. Lord Sauron demanded a heavy tribute and those that could not pay him service forfeited their lives. I fear it will take time for things to change.”
Faramir repressed a shudder. Friendly and eager to please Tahir might be, but he came from a land whose invading warriors Faramir had fought since he was old enough to wield sword and bow. He had lost many good comrades to the warriors of Harad. An image of one of his Rangers cleft almost in twain by a Southron sword swam before his eyes. “I think I will have some dessert,” he said.
“What shall I fetch you, my lord?” a hovering servant enquired.
“I think I will stretch my legs,” said Faramir. The Steward wandered over to the table piled high with exotic fruits, custards and syllabubs. Faramir felt slightly nauseous at the memories that been stirred within him and was loth to eat any more just yet.
Two of the Ambassador’s entourage were by the table chattering to each other in their own tongue.
“Is your dagger sharp?” one asked.
Faramir ignored them, assuming they were concerned about slicing fruit, but both men chose spiced custards to eat.
“Be careful,” said the other. “We are not alone.”
“The fools do not understand us,” said the first man. “I brought two blades for good measure. The conqueror’s days are numbered. Tonight he drinks his own blood!”
Faramir realised to his horror that these two were planning to murder Aragorn. Trying to appear as nonchalant as possible, he picked up a peach from the table and made his way back to his place, never taking his eyes from the would be killers.
“Shall I slice that for you, my lord?” asked a servant.
“No thank you.” Faramir brushed the man aside. Just then one of the Haradrim reached inside his flowing robes.
“Guards, arrest those men!” Faramir cried.
The guards raced to obey Faramir’s orders.
“This is an outrage!” the ambassador protested. “Release my companions at once!”
“They plan to kill the King,” Faramir cried.
Hearing the commotion, more guards raced to the scene. They seized the ambassador and the remainder of his entourage.
“How dare you?” Tahir protested. “We came here in peacefulness. We offer not harm to your esteemed majesty.”
“You call this no harm?” A guard held up a long handled curved dagger with a serrated blade. “It is punishable by death to carry a concealed weapon in the presence of the King.”
“Explain yourself, Ratib,” said the ambassador sternly.
“The enemy of the Lord of Gifts deserves to choke in his own blood!” said Ratib in his own tongue. “Let him perish as my brothers were slain!”
“A curse upon him and all of his kind!” cried the second would-be assassin, while a guard relieved him of an equally evil looking blade. He spat in Aragorn’s direction.
“Mercy, most gracious and esteemed Lord King!” Tahir managed to break free from the grasp on the guard who was restraining him. He flung himself at Aragorn’s feet.. “Let not your wrath fall upon my fair flower and fruits. Shave my beard and tear my robe, do with me as you will, but harm not them! Shame not my fragrant flower and let my sons live! They are but babes.”
“What do you take me for?” Aragorn asked angrily. “We do not harm innocent women and children in my realms. They will be shown more courtesy than you have shown us with your wicked plot.”
“I plot nothing. I want peace, between our lands friends. “ Tahir’s Westron became increasingly broken in his agitation.
A sudden horrible thought struck Aragorn. The ambassador’s wife was with his Arwen! What if her pregnancy were but a pretext and she was concealing weapons beneath the flowing robes that the Haradrim wore? “See that the prisoners are taken into custody,” he ordered Faramir. With that he ran from the room, calling for more guards to join him.
Aragorn drew his sword when he reached his apartments. “Wait there,” he ordered the guards. He flung the door wide and hastened within calling his wife’s name loudly.
“Whatever is the matter Estel?” Arwen appeared from her private sitting room.
“Where is the ambassador’s wife?” Aragorn demanded.
“Lady Adiva? She is resting. The poor woman should never have undertaken so long a journey in her condition.”
“Her condition? She may not be with child at all, but instead be concealing weapons.”
“What nonsense, Estel! She permitted me to feel the baby kicking as well as Dame Ivorwen from the Houses. She was curious about my Elven abilities and I was able to tell she was carrying a strong healthy child who was eager to be born. Whatever is all this about? You will frighten the poor lady bursting in like this!”
“She might well be frightened,” Aragorn said grimly. “Her husband and his companions were planning to murder me!”
“My husband is no assassin!” A foreign sounding voice called.
Aragorn gripped his sword hilt tighter as its owner appeared, an olive skinned woman who waddled across the room in great agitation.
“What have you done with my husband?” the woman asked. “Who are you?”
“I am the King,” Aragorn replied. “Your husband is under arrest, my lady.”
The woman gave a cry in her own language and sank senseless to the ground.
Aragorn bent over her, looking concerned. Dame Ivorwen, together with a woman who appeared to be Lady Adiva’s maid, came running at the sound of her cry. The maid, oblivious as to who Aragorn was, started screaming curses at him in her native tongue. Dame Ivorwen tried vainly to calm her.
“She has fainted,” said Aragorn. He scooped the woman up and carried her to the couch in Arwen’s solar. While the other women fussed around her, she opened her eyes and groaned loudly. Aragorn took Arwen to one side and explained to her all that happened.
The Queen listened gravely, her eyes wide with horror.
“It was when the so called ambassador mentioned his wife that I feared you might be in danger,” he explained. I shall send the woman and her children back to Harad.”
Dame Ivorwen approached them looking grave. “ I believe the Ambassador’s wife might be about to give birth, my lord, my lady, though I would need to examine her properly to be certain,” she said. “She has started to have strong contractions.”
“I will bid the guards carry her on a litter to the Houses of Healing,” said Aragorn.
“Your pardon, sire, but I do not think she should be moved, ”said Dame Ivorwen. “I doubt she could reach the Houses in time and the journey would be most unpleasant for the poor lady.”
“She shall stay here of course,” said Arwen before her husband could answer. Her tone permitted no argument.
“I must return to the prisoners,” said Aragorn. “My guards will remain in case of any threat to you.”
“Well, they can wait outside,” Arwen said firmly. “Whatever her husband might have done, Lady Adiva deserves some privacy for the birth.”
“I ask you only to be careful,” said Aragorn as he took his leave.
Arwen returned to the solar where Lady Adiva lay on the couch .She was trembling.
“There is no need to be afraid,” Arwen said kindly. “Your baby will soon be with you.”
“Then what will become of us?” cried Lady Adiva. “I be shamed before my husband ere we die, and my precious jewels enslaved! My lord never hurt yours!”
Arwen grasped the woman’s hand. “The King would never abuse women and children thus, and your husband will be given a fair hearing. I place you and your children under my personal protection.”
“You are most gracious, esteemed Lady Arwen.” Lady Adiva managed a faint smile.
**
Meanwhile Faramir had personally searched the ambassador in deference to his rank and found no weapons on him. Neither had the guards found any further weapons on members of his entourage. Faramir told the guards to take the two would be assassins to prison, but felt loth to send the others there until he had consulted with the King.
He now sat with Tahir in an anteroom near the reception hall. A guard was stationed outside, but the two were alone together. “I desire peace, I would not harm your esteemed Lord King,” said Tahir yet again. He was less agitated now and was again speaking fluent Westron.
“For my part, I sense no deception in you,” said Faramir. “But if you desire peace, why bring two companions who would rob Gondor of her lord?”
“I chose them not, exalted Lord Steward” said Tahir. “The Great Khan commanded I bring fourteen companions, two from each of our seven great tribes. I come from the tribe of Fatin, as does my fair blossom. Those contemptible sons of dogs are born of the Suhayb tribe. Maybe their leader want war within our lands as well as your esteemed lord’s kingdom?”
“I see,” said Faramir thoughtfully. He knew all too well that there were rival factions within Gondor. Maybe the same was true of Harad? They still knew very little about their former enemies. When the Dark Lord had been overthrown, there had been a rebellion in Harad and the ruling Khan had been slaughtered and replaced with one of his former captains. It was with this new leader that a treaty had been signed. “What tribe was your former leader from?” Faramir asked.
“The accursed sons of Suhayb,” Tahir replied.
“And the Lord who rules Harad now?”
“He is of my tribe, his father’s uncle and my father, may their souls dwell forever in the shade of the oasis, were brothers, most esteemed Lord Faramir.”
“I see,” said Faramir. Everything suddenly began to make sense. “Unless the King decrees otherwise,” he said, “I place you under house arrest until we ascertain the full truth of this matter. I believe you to be innocent of plotting against the King, but I will take no chances with my lord’s well well-being.”
“Nor should you, esteemed lord,” said Tahir. “May the sun’s rays never burn you.”
**
A few hours later, Lady Adiva was sitting propped up in bed in a guest chamber in the royal apartments, clutching her tiny newborn daughter. The baby was a little early, but strong and healthy.
“She is beautiful,” said Arwen.
“You have been most kind, gracious Lady Arwen,” said Adiva. “Alas, that she will grow up fatherless!”
Just then a servant tapped on the door, “The Ambassador asks if he might see his wife?” she said. “The King has released him in order to visit his wife.”
“Let him enter,” said Arwen.
“How is my fair flower, esteemed Lady Queen?” asked the Ambassador as soon as he was allowed through the door.
“She is well,” said Arwen bristling slightly at the man. She had heard that the men of Harad were unloving husbands who treated their womenfolk worse than their beasts.
“And the child?”
“You have a daughter,” Arwen sounded rather defensive. “A fair and healthy child whom you can be proud of.”
“A daughter!” Long have a desired you a priceless treasure, exalted lady, but I am glad I was not granted such until the days of peace where she can flourish and blossom as she ought.”
“Tahir!” cried Lady Adiva at the sound of her husband’s voice. Arwen turned to look at her and perceived tears of joy were running down the lady’s cheeks.
“My dear love, fairest of flowers! All is well. The exalted Lord Elessar believes my innocence.” Tahir ran towards his wife.
Arwen retreated to the far side of the room and gazed out of the window for a few minutes while the couple were reunited and chattered in their own tongue.
“Esteemed Lady Arwen?” Adiva called after a few minutes.
Arwen returned to the bedside. Tahir bowed low to her. “My fair flower and I would consider it the highest of honours if you would choose a name for our child,” he said.
“The honour is mine.” Arwen studied the infant’s features for a moment or two and then said. “I name her Elwing after my grandmother.”
Lady Adiva beamed. “The name is pretty,” she said. “May your grandmother always dwell by an oasis!”
**
Aragorn was trying to decipher an almost illegible document concerning levies on imported grain the next morning, when a knock on his study door interrupted him.
“Come in!” he called.
Faramir entered and bowed low. ”I have completed the report you requested concerning yesterday’s incident,” he said.
“I have not yet had a chance to properly express my gratitude,” said Aragorn standing up and warmly clasping Faramir’s hands. “You saved my life yesterday with your quick thinking. I am in your debt.”
“It is my pleasure to be of service, sire,” said Faramir colouring slightly at the King’s praise.
“One thing surprises me,” said Aragorn. “How did you know the words used in Harad for things like “dagger” and “blood”? I taught you formal courtly greetings, which are not remotely bloodthirsty!”
“I have poor Utbar in the Houses of Healing to thank for the knowledge,” said Faramir. “He was none too happy at being asked to talk to me and delighted in telling me in gory detail what he would like to do to his enemies if his limbs were sound. I could only pity the young man. He cannot have seen more than twenty spring times and now he can never walk beneath the trees nor embrace a sweetheart.”
“I shall see he is well provided for rather than expecting the Ambassador to pay for his care,” said Aragorn. “The young man has unwittingly done great service to Gondor.”
“I intend to continue visiting him,” said Faramir. “By my third visit he ceased to curse and was, I believe grateful for someone to converse with, even a former enemy. I am so grateful that you taught me the tongue of Harad, my lord, it has proved most useful.”
“You are a pleasure to teach,” said Aragorn and this time he meant it from the bottom of his heart. What did it matter if a pupil surpassed their teacher? Lore and learning were treasures that should be shared.
Wednesday, February 17, 2010
Before it was Broken
Title: Before it was Broken
Rating: G
Theme: Letters
Elements: Thank you letter
Beta: Raksha and Virtuella. With grateful thanks.
These characters all belong to the estate of J.R.R. Tolkien. This story was written for pleasure and not for financial gain.
Arwen could delay the dreaded task no longer. Eldarion was asleep, watched over by his nurse, Estel was at a meeting of the Council, she had no engagements that morning, and for once, no one was desiring an audience with the Queen of Gondor and Arnor.
Sighing, Arwen sat down at her desk and dipped the quill in the ink. She had told Estel of her dilemma over breakfast that morning, but her husband had simply laughed. “It cannot be that bad,” he had said. “A simple note of thanks will suffice.”
“But the Peredhil do not lie!” Arwen had protested. “It is truly hideous! Yet, I would not hurt the feelings of two kind and well meaning friends.”
“You excel at diplomatic skills,” Estel had assured her. Then with a kiss on her cheek and another on Eldarion’s dark curls, he was gone, leaving Arwen with the object of her nightmares.
The Queen studied the vase again. 'Hideous' was only one way to describe it. 'Garish' would be an equally apt description. About a foot tall, the vase was decorated with a clashing array of purple irises and yellow tulips, far too lavishly embellished with thick bands of gold leaf, under the rim and at the base, which overshadowed the flowers and made it glitter so brightly that it would hurt sensitive eyes to look upon it for long. Estel had told her that gold was highly prized in Southron lands .which meant that the ugly vase was a gift betokening great respect. This only added to Arwen’s dilemma. She must thank Lord Tahir and Lady Adiva properly, but how could she without lying?
Her eyes wandered across the room to where a beautiful vase of silver, inlaid with pearl, stood holding a few sprigs of evergreens. The cherished heirloom, which had belonged to her grandmother, was exactly what a vase should look like, elegant and understated, so that the eye was drawn to the greenery or flowers and not the container they stood in.
But then, the Elves had dwelled for centuries in temperate climes where abundant flowers and foliage flourished, unlike the Ambassador from Harad and his lady.
Arwen took a deep breath and began to write
My dear Lord Tahir and Lady Adiva,
It was kind of you to think of us this Mettarë
That much at least was true; the Haradrim had no similar festival, their desert clime having little variation in seasons or length of days.
How thoughtful that you should remember how much I love flowers.
Another sincere sentiment, Lady Adiva had noticed that the Queen’s sitting room was never without a vase of whatever flowers were in season. She was not to know that of all flowers Arwen liked irises and tulips the least, considering them stiff and formal. Tulips originated in Harad and were much prized there as a rarity that flourished only in the cooler highland regions. Irises, too grew in the region, and as for the hue, Arwen made no secret that purple was a favourite shade of hers. Who was to know that she much preferred the humble violet to the haughty iris?
I will think of you both whenever I behold your kind gift.
Arwen paused. Much as she would like to, she could hardly consign the vase to the back of a cupboard, or donate it to be sold for the poor. Tahir and Adiva were fairly regular visitors. But the thought of using such a monstrosity to display flowers when she had such beautiful vases made her cringe!
“Naneth!” A miniature whirlwind burst through the slightly open door as Eldarion toddled towards his mother.
“My apologies, my lady, I could not catch him!” the breathless nursemaid gasped as she vainly pursued her charge.
“He can stay with me for a while. He is almost due to be fed.” Arwen dismissed the girl with a smile. She handed her son one of the quills off her desk to play with. His chubby little legs exhausted, Eldarion started to crawl around the floor, brandishing the quill in a manner reminiscent of the way his father held Andúril.
Arwen returned to contemplating her letter, but something, maybe a mother’s instinct, caused her to look up after a few moments. Eldarion had crawled towards the table where the precious pearl inlaid silver vase stood and was about to pull off the cloth.
“No, Eldarion!” Arwen cried sternly, leaping to her feet. Reaching a decision, she called for her maid.
An hour later, and after a full and sleepy Eldarion had been returned to the nursery, Arwen returned to writing her letter. On the table a vase full of greenery still stood, but instead of her cherished heirloom, it was the gift of the Harad Ambassador and his wife. Better that she should endure this monstrosity for a time in order to still enjoy something of nature that meant so much to her kind, rather than have Eldarion shatter the heirloom that had been cherished in her family for centuries.
She picked up the quill and concluded.
The vase will most useful for my sitting room, as I love to always have flowers about me. It was just what I needed this winter.
I hope you will both visit us very soon and look forward to seeing you and hearing all the latest news about your children. Maybe your youngest would like to play with Eldarion?
Arwen smiled as she signed and sealed the letter. Maybe as a mother of five, Adiva knew that treasured processions had to be locked out of the way of lively young children and had considered something that she had not?
‘Perhaps the vase was not such a hideous gift after all?’ Arwen mused. And was not an even greater gift that former enemies could now be good friends? She gave the letter to a servant to deliver, inwardly congratulating herself that every word was true!
A/N
This story is a prequel to “The Vase that was Broken”
http://lindahoyland.yolasite.com/the-vase-that-was-broken.php
Arwen’s favourite vase is mentioned in “A Time to Reap” chapter 4.
http://lindahoyland.yolasite.com/a-time-to-reap.php
Lord Tahir and Lady Adiva appear in “Dies Irae”
http://lindahoyland.yolasite.com/dies-irae.php
Written for the LOTR Community March Challenge - Letters.
Title: Before it was Broken
Rating: G
Theme: Letters
Elements: Thank you letter
Beta: Raksha and Virtuella. With grateful thanks.
These characters all belong to the estate of J.R.R. Tolkien. This story was written for pleasure and not for financial gain.
Arwen could delay the dreaded task no longer. Eldarion was asleep, watched over by his nurse, Estel was at a meeting of the Council, she had no engagements that morning, and for once, no one was desiring an audience with the Queen of Gondor and Arnor.
Sighing, Arwen sat down at her desk and dipped the quill in the ink. She had told Estel of her dilemma over breakfast that morning, but her husband had simply laughed. “It cannot be that bad,” he had said. “A simple note of thanks will suffice.”
“But the Peredhil do not lie!” Arwen had protested. “It is truly hideous! Yet, I would not hurt the feelings of two kind and well meaning friends.”
“You excel at diplomatic skills,” Estel had assured her. Then with a kiss on her cheek and another on Eldarion’s dark curls, he was gone, leaving Arwen with the object of her nightmares.
The Queen studied the vase again. 'Hideous' was only one way to describe it. 'Garish' would be an equally apt description. About a foot tall, the vase was decorated with a clashing array of purple irises and yellow tulips, far too lavishly embellished with thick bands of gold leaf, under the rim and at the base, which overshadowed the flowers and made it glitter so brightly that it would hurt sensitive eyes to look upon it for long. Estel had told her that gold was highly prized in Southron lands .which meant that the ugly vase was a gift betokening great respect. This only added to Arwen’s dilemma. She must thank Lord Tahir and Lady Adiva properly, but how could she without lying?
Her eyes wandered across the room to where a beautiful vase of silver, inlaid with pearl, stood holding a few sprigs of evergreens. The cherished heirloom, which had belonged to her grandmother, was exactly what a vase should look like, elegant and understated, so that the eye was drawn to the greenery or flowers and not the container they stood in.
But then, the Elves had dwelled for centuries in temperate climes where abundant flowers and foliage flourished, unlike the Ambassador from Harad and his lady.
Arwen took a deep breath and began to write
My dear Lord Tahir and Lady Adiva,
It was kind of you to think of us this Mettarë
That much at least was true; the Haradrim had no similar festival, their desert clime having little variation in seasons or length of days.
How thoughtful that you should remember how much I love flowers.
Another sincere sentiment, Lady Adiva had noticed that the Queen’s sitting room was never without a vase of whatever flowers were in season. She was not to know that of all flowers Arwen liked irises and tulips the least, considering them stiff and formal. Tulips originated in Harad and were much prized there as a rarity that flourished only in the cooler highland regions. Irises, too grew in the region, and as for the hue, Arwen made no secret that purple was a favourite shade of hers. Who was to know that she much preferred the humble violet to the haughty iris?
I will think of you both whenever I behold your kind gift.
Arwen paused. Much as she would like to, she could hardly consign the vase to the back of a cupboard, or donate it to be sold for the poor. Tahir and Adiva were fairly regular visitors. But the thought of using such a monstrosity to display flowers when she had such beautiful vases made her cringe!
“Naneth!” A miniature whirlwind burst through the slightly open door as Eldarion toddled towards his mother.
“My apologies, my lady, I could not catch him!” the breathless nursemaid gasped as she vainly pursued her charge.
“He can stay with me for a while. He is almost due to be fed.” Arwen dismissed the girl with a smile. She handed her son one of the quills off her desk to play with. His chubby little legs exhausted, Eldarion started to crawl around the floor, brandishing the quill in a manner reminiscent of the way his father held Andúril.
Arwen returned to contemplating her letter, but something, maybe a mother’s instinct, caused her to look up after a few moments. Eldarion had crawled towards the table where the precious pearl inlaid silver vase stood and was about to pull off the cloth.
“No, Eldarion!” Arwen cried sternly, leaping to her feet. Reaching a decision, she called for her maid.
An hour later, and after a full and sleepy Eldarion had been returned to the nursery, Arwen returned to writing her letter. On the table a vase full of greenery still stood, but instead of her cherished heirloom, it was the gift of the Harad Ambassador and his wife. Better that she should endure this monstrosity for a time in order to still enjoy something of nature that meant so much to her kind, rather than have Eldarion shatter the heirloom that had been cherished in her family for centuries.
She picked up the quill and concluded.
The vase will most useful for my sitting room, as I love to always have flowers about me. It was just what I needed this winter.
I hope you will both visit us very soon and look forward to seeing you and hearing all the latest news about your children. Maybe your youngest would like to play with Eldarion?
Arwen smiled as she signed and sealed the letter. Maybe as a mother of five, Adiva knew that treasured processions had to be locked out of the way of lively young children and had considered something that she had not?
‘Perhaps the vase was not such a hideous gift after all?’ Arwen mused. And was not an even greater gift that former enemies could now be good friends? She gave the letter to a servant to deliver, inwardly congratulating herself that every word was true!
A/N
This story is a prequel to “The Vase that was Broken”
http://lindahoyland.yolasite.com/the-vase-that-was-broken.php
Arwen’s favourite vase is mentioned in “A Time to Reap” chapter 4.
http://lindahoyland.yolasite.com/a-time-to-reap.php
Lord Tahir and Lady Adiva appear in “Dies Irae”
http://lindahoyland.yolasite.com/dies-irae.php
Written for the LOTR Community March Challenge - Letters.
Hues of Middle-earth
Cherry Ripe
Disclaimer - These characters all belong to the estate of J.R.R. Tolkien. This story was written for pleasure and not for financial gain.
icon - Nerwende
The bowl of cherries stood in the centre of the table, each fruit almost glowing with ripe, juicy sweetness.
Eldarion eyed the fruit longingly. He had been told not to eat them, but they looked so tasty! How could he resist?
“Surely no one would miss just one?” the little boy asked himself.
Soon the bowl was filled only with stones while Eldarion’s fingers and mouth were crimson with the juice of the forbidden fruit.
“Eldarion!” cried his mother accusingly. “Those cherries were meant for us all to share for dessert.”
Eldarion’s face turned as red as the purloined cherries.
A Cat may look at a King
Mewing loudly, the orange cat rubbed against Aragorn’s legs as he paused to speak to some children near the Citadel.
“That’s Marmalade,” a little girl informed him. “He follows me everywhere!”
Aragorn smiled at the child and stroked her pet. The cat was a magnificent feline. It reclined on the warm stones as if it owned them, the sun gleaming on its tawny fur.
“You are like Marmalade,” said the little girl.
Aragorn was about to protest when the cat stretched and regarded him with a regal air.
Whether cat or King was more lordly would be difficult to say!
Bright as the Sun
icon - Kissmygrass
Faramir had dreamed of the wave again last night. Was Middle-earth doomed to be destroyed like Númenor of old?
The Steward wandered through the gardens trying to dispel his dark thoughts. A single primrose bloom caught his eye. Every year without fail, the dainty yellow flowers returned as heralds of spring’s return. His spirits rose.
“My Lord?”
Faramir turned and saw the Warden with a stranger. His head spun, while his heart soared. Never had he beheld a maiden so fair! The darkness, could not, would not prevail; not now a maid with sun bright hair had stolen his heart!
Into the woods
icon- Fileg
Singing softly to himself, Estel, or Aragorn, as he now knew his true name to be, wandered through Imladris’ leafy glades. The woods were ever fair, but never more so than in their fresh spring garb of verdant hue. The trees sang too, as the breeze rippled through their branches.
A maiden danced beneath the birches, moving gracefully in time to their music.
Aragorn gazed enthralled. Fairer than the Evening Star, she was both young and ancient of days. He stood abashed: young and green as a fresh sapling buffeted by the wind.
Adorned with Stars
icon - Fileg - art - Alan Lee
Faramir carefully opened the chest, hesitating before he unwrapped its contents. He lifted the cloak and held it in his arms with something like reverence.
Sometimes he fancied he could still smell his mother’s perfume on the soft blue folds, which remained unfaded, and untouched by moth, even after three long decades.
If only she could have remained by his side! Alas, his mother was as far away as the stars adorning the robe’s throat and hem.
He had met another lady, fair as the stars but closer, worthy of this mantle.
Faramir smiled. Surely Finduilas would have blessed him.
Mightier than the Sword
With grateful thanks to Raksha
A loud scream emanated from the King’s private apartments. The guards drew their swords and raced to the rescue. Whatever could be wrong? Had an intruder assaulted their lord?
Aragorn stood in the centre of his chamber, clad only in breeches, boots, a half finished shirt, and a deep scowl.
“Do stand still, Estel!” chided the Queen, brandishing a pincushion.
“You might stick another pin in me!” growled Aragorn. To think that the Haradrim had bested him, not with the sword, but with indigo silk!
Seeing their lord's fierce look, the guards hastily left the room, suppressing their laughter.
Hidden treasure
“The irises are especially beautiful this year,” said Éowyn proudly as she escorted the Queen around her garden in Ithilien. “Faramir had corms for some rare varieties sent from Harad.”
Arwen, though, seemed oblivious to the gaudy purple and yellow blooms. Her attention was caught by a patch of delicate flowers under the shade of a large oak. “I love these!” she exclaimed. “They are so pretty!”
“You prefer violets? But violets are as common as weeds. I only grow them for medicinal use.”
“They remind me of the flowers of my homeland,” said Arwen. “Small, hidden and most fair.”
After the Storm
icon- elanordh
The storm had raged fiercely all day, the torrential rain, thunder and lightening mirroring the turmoil within Arwen’s heart.
She sensed that today would either see her beloved triumph, or destroy her hopes of happiness forever, together with all that was good in Middle-earth.
Suddenly the tumult ceased. Imladris was bathed in brilliant sunlight. Sunbeams danced between the still gently falling raindrops.
Arwen laughed for sheer joy as her heart felt the darkness lift. She caught sight of a perfect rainbow resplendent in the heavens. The jewel-like hues had never seemed so fair. The darkness was past. Hope had endured.
Cherry Ripe
Disclaimer - These characters all belong to the estate of J.R.R. Tolkien. This story was written for pleasure and not for financial gain.
icon - Nerwende
The bowl of cherries stood in the centre of the table, each fruit almost glowing with ripe, juicy sweetness.
Eldarion eyed the fruit longingly. He had been told not to eat them, but they looked so tasty! How could he resist?
“Surely no one would miss just one?” the little boy asked himself.
Soon the bowl was filled only with stones while Eldarion’s fingers and mouth were crimson with the juice of the forbidden fruit.
“Eldarion!” cried his mother accusingly. “Those cherries were meant for us all to share for dessert.”
Eldarion’s face turned as red as the purloined cherries.
A Cat may look at a King
Mewing loudly, the orange cat rubbed against Aragorn’s legs as he paused to speak to some children near the Citadel.
“That’s Marmalade,” a little girl informed him. “He follows me everywhere!”
Aragorn smiled at the child and stroked her pet. The cat was a magnificent feline. It reclined on the warm stones as if it owned them, the sun gleaming on its tawny fur.
“You are like Marmalade,” said the little girl.
Aragorn was about to protest when the cat stretched and regarded him with a regal air.
Whether cat or King was more lordly would be difficult to say!
Bright as the Sun
icon - Kissmygrass
Faramir had dreamed of the wave again last night. Was Middle-earth doomed to be destroyed like Númenor of old?
The Steward wandered through the gardens trying to dispel his dark thoughts. A single primrose bloom caught his eye. Every year without fail, the dainty yellow flowers returned as heralds of spring’s return. His spirits rose.
“My Lord?”
Faramir turned and saw the Warden with a stranger. His head spun, while his heart soared. Never had he beheld a maiden so fair! The darkness, could not, would not prevail; not now a maid with sun bright hair had stolen his heart!
Into the woods
icon- Fileg
Singing softly to himself, Estel, or Aragorn, as he now knew his true name to be, wandered through Imladris’ leafy glades. The woods were ever fair, but never more so than in their fresh spring garb of verdant hue. The trees sang too, as the breeze rippled through their branches.
A maiden danced beneath the birches, moving gracefully in time to their music.
Aragorn gazed enthralled. Fairer than the Evening Star, she was both young and ancient of days. He stood abashed: young and green as a fresh sapling buffeted by the wind.
Adorned with Stars
icon - Fileg - art - Alan Lee
Faramir carefully opened the chest, hesitating before he unwrapped its contents. He lifted the cloak and held it in his arms with something like reverence.
Sometimes he fancied he could still smell his mother’s perfume on the soft blue folds, which remained unfaded, and untouched by moth, even after three long decades.
If only she could have remained by his side! Alas, his mother was as far away as the stars adorning the robe’s throat and hem.
He had met another lady, fair as the stars but closer, worthy of this mantle.
Faramir smiled. Surely Finduilas would have blessed him.
Mightier than the Sword
With grateful thanks to Raksha
A loud scream emanated from the King’s private apartments. The guards drew their swords and raced to the rescue. Whatever could be wrong? Had an intruder assaulted their lord?
Aragorn stood in the centre of his chamber, clad only in breeches, boots, a half finished shirt, and a deep scowl.
“Do stand still, Estel!” chided the Queen, brandishing a pincushion.
“You might stick another pin in me!” growled Aragorn. To think that the Haradrim had bested him, not with the sword, but with indigo silk!
Seeing their lord's fierce look, the guards hastily left the room, suppressing their laughter.
Hidden treasure
“The irises are especially beautiful this year,” said Éowyn proudly as she escorted the Queen around her garden in Ithilien. “Faramir had corms for some rare varieties sent from Harad.”
Arwen, though, seemed oblivious to the gaudy purple and yellow blooms. Her attention was caught by a patch of delicate flowers under the shade of a large oak. “I love these!” she exclaimed. “They are so pretty!”
“You prefer violets? But violets are as common as weeds. I only grow them for medicinal use.”
“They remind me of the flowers of my homeland,” said Arwen. “Small, hidden and most fair.”
After the Storm
icon- elanordh
The storm had raged fiercely all day, the torrential rain, thunder and lightening mirroring the turmoil within Arwen’s heart.
She sensed that today would either see her beloved triumph, or destroy her hopes of happiness forever, together with all that was good in Middle-earth.
Suddenly the tumult ceased. Imladris was bathed in brilliant sunlight. Sunbeams danced between the still gently falling raindrops.
Arwen laughed for sheer joy as her heart felt the darkness lift. She caught sight of a perfect rainbow resplendent in the heavens. The jewel-like hues had never seemed so fair. The darkness was past. Hope had endured.
Thursday, January 21, 2010
A Gift for Faramir
Summary: Faramir receives an unexpected gift.
Rating: G
Disclaimer: The characters are the property of the Tolkien Estate. The story was written for pleasure not profit.
With grateful thanks to Raksha.
The crisp autumn leaves crackled under Faramir’s booted feet. He smiled at the memories the sound evoked: the glad days of childhood, when he and Boromir ran and played together. ’Twas a pity that he was now too old for childish games! He was only snatching this brief respite in the crisp air because the preparations for the King’s return were making his head ache after a very busy morning.
Aragorn had been spending some time at Legolas’ Elven domain together with his Queen and his foster brothers. He had sent a message that he would call on Faramir and Éowyn on his way back to Minas Tirith. It would be good to see his lord and friend again, Faramir thought contentedly. The King had only been gone for two weeks, but Faramir had missed his companionship and their regular debates over lore and history, a subject dear to the hearts of both men.
Faramir stood looking over his lands. The fields had yielded a rich harvest and now lay fallow until the spring planting. The trees, so green in summer, now bore varied brilliant hues of orange, gold and bronze. Even all these years after the defeat of the Dark Lord, Faramir never failed to appreciate the beauty of the land at peace and give thanks for it.
The sound of leaves crackling behind him made Faramir start. Whoever could be there? He had told his guards that he wished to take a solitary walk. Faramir spun round, his hand upon his sword. There, much to his surprise stood Aragorn. And the King was not alone either. Aragorn bore a wriggling hound pup clasped firmly in his arms.
“Well met, my friend!” Aragorn exclaimed. “ I would embrace you, but as you see, my arms are rather full!”
“It is good to see you!” Faramir replied. “Forgive me, but I did not expect you until later. Éowyn is preparing a feast in your honour.” He moved forward to clasp his lord’s shoulder in greeting, and then held out his hand for the puppy to inspect. Faramir, accustomed to both the slender greyhounds of Dol Amroth and the larger, shaggier wolf-killers of the Mark, looked appreciatively on the animal. The pup was very young but would be quite big in maturity, with a good bone structure, a short and smooth grey coat, and soft eyes that fixed on his. The pup sniffed Faramir’s fingertips and began to enthusiastically lick his fingers, then his palm. “Quite a fine puppy!” he exclaimed with a laugh. “What is its name?”
“That is for you to decide, my friend,” said Aragorn. “Elladan and Elrohir have been breeding hounds from a pair that Master Elrond left behind for them. Some say they are descended from Huan himself, though their true ancestry is long lost in the mists of time. I have seen many a fine hound, but the Rivendell breed are the most loyal, intelligent dogs that ever I have known. Not only do they track all manner of dangerous creatures, but they are both the guards and playmates of children. ”
“This is a wondrous gift indeed!” said Faramir. His face was alight with joy.
“No Man deserves him more,” said Aragorn. “I could not wish for a better Steward, or a more loyal and loving friend.” He handed the pup to Faramir as he spoke. The little creature nosed and licked the Steward’s face before settling contentedly in his arms.
Later that night Faramir and Éowyn sat together on the sofa in front of a roaring fire. The children were all tucked up in bed asleep while the King and Queen and their family had departed for the City. The Lord and Lady of Ithilien sat quietly, enjoying each other’s company in the hour before bed. The puppy lay stretched across both their laps, his head pillowed in the crook of Faramir’s arm, while a gently wagging tail rewarded Éowyn’s caresses of the little creature’s flank.
“He is almost as good a gift as a horse,” Éowyn mused. “The other hounds seem to have quickly taken to him. You are a lucky man, Faramir!”
“I believe I am the most fortunate man alive,” Faramir replied planting a tender kiss on her lips. “I am blessed with you and our children; I have the best of lords, our land prospers, and now I even have an Elven hound! Could any other man be as glad as I am?”
Faramir was about to say more, but was silenced by the puppy licking his face. Its eagerly wagging tail brushed across Éowyn’s cheek. It seemed the latest addition to the family would be as contented as its lord and lady.
A/N. This story was written as a birthday gift for Raksha then revised and entered for the Teitho Contest where it was placed third.
Summary: Faramir receives an unexpected gift.
Rating: G
Disclaimer: The characters are the property of the Tolkien Estate. The story was written for pleasure not profit.
With grateful thanks to Raksha.
The crisp autumn leaves crackled under Faramir’s booted feet. He smiled at the memories the sound evoked: the glad days of childhood, when he and Boromir ran and played together. ’Twas a pity that he was now too old for childish games! He was only snatching this brief respite in the crisp air because the preparations for the King’s return were making his head ache after a very busy morning.
Aragorn had been spending some time at Legolas’ Elven domain together with his Queen and his foster brothers. He had sent a message that he would call on Faramir and Éowyn on his way back to Minas Tirith. It would be good to see his lord and friend again, Faramir thought contentedly. The King had only been gone for two weeks, but Faramir had missed his companionship and their regular debates over lore and history, a subject dear to the hearts of both men.
Faramir stood looking over his lands. The fields had yielded a rich harvest and now lay fallow until the spring planting. The trees, so green in summer, now bore varied brilliant hues of orange, gold and bronze. Even all these years after the defeat of the Dark Lord, Faramir never failed to appreciate the beauty of the land at peace and give thanks for it.
The sound of leaves crackling behind him made Faramir start. Whoever could be there? He had told his guards that he wished to take a solitary walk. Faramir spun round, his hand upon his sword. There, much to his surprise stood Aragorn. And the King was not alone either. Aragorn bore a wriggling hound pup clasped firmly in his arms.
“Well met, my friend!” Aragorn exclaimed. “ I would embrace you, but as you see, my arms are rather full!”
“It is good to see you!” Faramir replied. “Forgive me, but I did not expect you until later. Éowyn is preparing a feast in your honour.” He moved forward to clasp his lord’s shoulder in greeting, and then held out his hand for the puppy to inspect. Faramir, accustomed to both the slender greyhounds of Dol Amroth and the larger, shaggier wolf-killers of the Mark, looked appreciatively on the animal. The pup was very young but would be quite big in maturity, with a good bone structure, a short and smooth grey coat, and soft eyes that fixed on his. The pup sniffed Faramir’s fingertips and began to enthusiastically lick his fingers, then his palm. “Quite a fine puppy!” he exclaimed with a laugh. “What is its name?”
“That is for you to decide, my friend,” said Aragorn. “Elladan and Elrohir have been breeding hounds from a pair that Master Elrond left behind for them. Some say they are descended from Huan himself, though their true ancestry is long lost in the mists of time. I have seen many a fine hound, but the Rivendell breed are the most loyal, intelligent dogs that ever I have known. Not only do they track all manner of dangerous creatures, but they are both the guards and playmates of children. ”
“This is a wondrous gift indeed!” said Faramir. His face was alight with joy.
“No Man deserves him more,” said Aragorn. “I could not wish for a better Steward, or a more loyal and loving friend.” He handed the pup to Faramir as he spoke. The little creature nosed and licked the Steward’s face before settling contentedly in his arms.
Later that night Faramir and Éowyn sat together on the sofa in front of a roaring fire. The children were all tucked up in bed asleep while the King and Queen and their family had departed for the City. The Lord and Lady of Ithilien sat quietly, enjoying each other’s company in the hour before bed. The puppy lay stretched across both their laps, his head pillowed in the crook of Faramir’s arm, while a gently wagging tail rewarded Éowyn’s caresses of the little creature’s flank.
“He is almost as good a gift as a horse,” Éowyn mused. “The other hounds seem to have quickly taken to him. You are a lucky man, Faramir!”
“I believe I am the most fortunate man alive,” Faramir replied planting a tender kiss on her lips. “I am blessed with you and our children; I have the best of lords, our land prospers, and now I even have an Elven hound! Could any other man be as glad as I am?”
Faramir was about to say more, but was silenced by the puppy licking his face. Its eagerly wagging tail brushed across Éowyn’s cheek. It seemed the latest addition to the family would be as contented as its lord and lady.
A/N. This story was written as a birthday gift for Raksha then revised and entered for the Teitho Contest where it was placed third.
Wednesday, January 06, 2010
Let Hercules himself do what he may, The cat will mew and dog will have his day. Shakespeare - Hamlet. Act v.
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 Virtuella.
The late afternoon sun streamed through the windows bathing the couch where Aragorn and Faramir sat in its golden rays.
The King rose and looked out at the view of the sea. “A ship is just about to cast anchor,” he told Faramir.
“Shall we go for a walk before dinner?” Faramir sensed his friend’s restlessness.
“That is a good idea. I am stiff from being in the saddle all day,” Aragorn replied.
The two friends were enjoying spending the final days of their coastal tour with Faramir’s uncle. They were looking forward to being able to relax. Although it was an official visit, they would only be expected to attend one meeting and a formal banquet after an official tour of the town.
Their visit to the coastal regions had turned out far better than they expected. Aragorn and Faramir had not expected to be well received in Lamedon after Fontos’ involvement in the conspiracy against Aragorn, but it seemed most of the problems were caused by corrupt officials, rather than opposition to the King. They had encountered several less than worthy officers, whom they intended to see replaced, but on the whole, the rest of the region appeared peaceful, prosperous, and the people either loyal to the King, or indifferent to whoever was in charge as long as they were not oppressed and had sufficient to eat.
After warmly greeting his guests, the Prince of Dol Amroth had left them to rest, while he met with some local farmers to discuss arrangements for the harvest feast. Both men had quickly grown weary of sitting doing nothing save anticipate the fine meal that Faramir’s uncle was sure to give them.
The two men asked a maid to bring their cloaks and hastened outside after having left a message to tell Imrahil that they would be back in time for dinner.
“I would like to show you my favourite walk from when Boromir and I visited here as children,” said Faramir as he led the way towards the cliff path. “Just look at that view of the sea!”
Aragorn realised that he knew the path well from his years of service in Gondor. He found himself wholeheartedly embracing the younger man’s enthusiasm, for it was indeed a beautiful walk with sweeping views of the bay. When they reached a bench, Faramir stopped and traced his fingers tenderly across the carved stonework. “Naneth used to sit here and watch the tide going out while Boromir and I gathered shells on the beach,” he said rather wistfully. ”How I wish she could have met Éowyn and the girls, and known that you were King!”
“I know she would rejoice in your happiness,” he said. “She was a peerless lady. Had I not already given my heart to Arwen, it would have been easy to fall in love with her. I think your uncle would have welcomed the match had either of us been inclined towards it.”
“Then you would have indeed been my father!” said Faramir, pondering how his life might have turned out differently. “That is, if Yavanna had given you children, but then I suppose I might be a very different person.”
Aragorn laughed at his usually level headed Steward’s fanciful train of thought. “Had I sired you, you would not be the person that you are, and I would not have you otherwise,” he said. “Then where would I find such a worthy Steward if you were the Heir instead? I think everything turned out just as it should. We both have wedded the ladies whom we gave our hearts to, as did your father. And you have become the son of my heart, as I believe you were meant to be. You could not be dearer if I, rather than Denethor, had begotten you.” Aragorn patted his friend’s shoulder affectionately.
Faramir’s eyes lit up. The two men sat down beside each other on the bench. They gazed out to sea in companionable silence, and watched a flock of gulls that screamed and wheeled overhead.
“What was that cry?” Aragorn asked suddenly.
“It will be the gulls. They sound almost human at times. The old sailors hold that they are the souls of folk who drowned.”
“I know that story well, “ said Aragorn. “However, I would wager that was no seagull mewing. It sounded like a cat to me!”
“A cat here?” Faramir sounded far from convinced. Nevertheless, he rose to his feet and peered over the cliff edge.
“Be careful, ion nîn!” Aragorn cautioned, not wanting the one he loved as his son to plunge over the edge. He hastened to his side, and gestured to Faramir to take a step back, before peering over himself.
“Have a care!” cautioned Faramir.
“Look, down there!” cried Aragorn. He gestured towards a ledge some ten feet or so beneath them on which cowered a tiny striped kitten.
“Poor little cat!” exclaimed Faramir. “However did it come to get down there?”
“Either it wandered away from its mother or some cruel person tried to throw it into the sea at high tide, but it landed on the ledge,” Aragorn said grimly. “No matter how severely I try to punish those who ill-treat animals, it seems some still ignore my edicts. I am going down to rescue the poor creature.”
“No!” Faramir protested. “Let me climb down instead! You are the King, and I am younger than you.”
“But I am the better climber!” Aragorn retorted. “If you recall, old though I might be, it was I who had to help you climb Mount Mindolluin! Just help lower me on to the ledge, then I can soon rescue the poor kitten.” As he spoke, Aragorn removed his cloak and sword, together with the satchel of healing supplies that he carried everywhere with him.
“Please have a care!” Faramir pleaded as the King carefully lowered himself over the edge of the cliff. For a moment, Aragorn held on with his arms, and then jumped the remaining two feet or so on to the ledge.
“I am safely down,” he called to his anxious Steward who was kneeling on the edge. Aragorn cautiously turned to face the kitten, which gave a high-pitched mew of fright. Its striped fur stood on end.
“I need something to carry it in,” Aragorn called to Faramir. “Tip the healing supplies out of my satchel and hand it down to me, please.”
The Steward tipped out a supply of bandages, salves, and dried athelas leaves on to Aragorn’s cloak. “Is the kitten hurt?” he enquired.
“I can see a few minor scratches, but it does not appear to be seriously injured,” the King replied. He started to sing softly in Elvish. The kitten pricked up its ears listening, a puzzled expression on its tiny whiskery face. Swift as a hawk, Aragorn grabbed the little creature and stuffed it inside the pouch. “Easy now, little one,” he soothed. He secured the worn leather straps tightly.
“Hand it up to me!” Faramir called from above. He lay down on his belly and dangled his arms over the cliff edge, feeling for the satchel as Aragorn handed it up to him; a satchel, which now wriggled and hissed. Faramir straightened up, still clutching the satchel while Aragorn scrambled back over the cliff edge. The King looked anything but kingly. His hair resembled an unruly mop decorated with sand and bits of marram grass, his face and hands were disfigured by grazes and scratches, while his tunic was dusty and torn.
“I fear the sight of you will give my uncle quite a shock,” said Faramir, his casual words concealed the intense relief that he felt at seeing his friend safe.
“You look little better!” Aragorn retorted. ”The front of your tunic is as bad as mine! Come, we had better take this little one home swiftly. You bring my sword and healing supplies. Wrap them in my cloak.”
Much to Aragorn and Faramir’s relief, Imrahil was still occupied with the visiting farmers when they returned Ignoring the servants’ raised eyebrows at their untidy appearance, they hastened to the chambers they had been allocated. Aragorn cautiously unfastened the satchel and lifted out the kitten. He grimaced slightly at the puddle it had left. “At least it is old enough to have a chance of surviving away from its mother,” he remarked. “Hold it still while I examine it.”
The kitten mewed indignantly as Aragorn carefully checked its small body for injuries and applied salve to a few minor cuts. It regarded its rescuers soulfully out of large green eyes.
“We need to give it some milk,” said Faramir after Aragorn was satisfied that he had done all he could.
“Or better still, find a foster mother for it. Does your uncle have barn cats?”
“He keeps a fair number or rats from the harbour would overrun his storerooms,” Faramir replied.
Aragorn carefully carried the kitten towards Imrahil’s main hall. It was calmer now and purred when the King and Steward took turns to stroke its stripy fur.
Suddenly a Belfalas greyhound with fine blue-grey fur ran towards them, and gave a bark.
“Heel, Mista!” called Imrahil, emerging from his study. The dog hesitated, and then lifted her head as she sighted the King of Gondor. Then she sprang forward with amazing swiftness and leaped up upon him, trying to reach the kitten. Even when she stood upright on her two back legs, Mista's small front paws did not reach Aragorn's thighs; but the kitten took fright. To the King’s dismay, the kitten wriggled from his grasp and fell to the floor less than a foot from the dog!
“No!” he cried as Faramir made a frantic, but doomed grab for the tiny animal, which had landed safely, albeit unsteadily on its four paws. Mista immediately picked up the kitten in her jaws.
King and Steward froze in horror convinced that the dog would kill the hapless kitten.
“Leave it!” cried Imrahil.
Mista ignored him, but instead of biting the kitten, she carried it towards her basket and dropped it inside. She flopped down on her side and within moments the kitten was greedily suckling one of Mista's full teats.
“She lost her puppies and has been pining for them,” Imrahil told them.
“We found the kitten abandoned on the cliff, uncle,” said Faramir. “We were hoping that one of your barn cats might serve as a foster mother.”
“I think Mista has claimed the kitten for her own,” smiled Imrahil. “It seems I will have a new mouser once he has grown.”
Aragorn nodded. Much though he would have liked to take the kitten home with him, it would have been hard to confine it during the trip back to Minas Tirith. And even with a foster-mother to nurse it, the kitten was too young to take so long a journey.
000
“Mista seems a remarkable dog,” Aragorn remarked as the two friends prepared for dinner. “I thought your uncle’s hounds were bred solely for the chase.”
“Belfalas greyhounds are special,” said Faramir. He pulled a tunic embroidered with the swan of Dol Amroth over his head. “I can just about recall my mother’s faithful hound; we called her Mousie. She loved all animals, did my mother.”
“Then she would be proud of you today,” said Aragorn and smiled.
A/n The idea of a Belfadas greyhound belonging to Faramir’s mother is borrowed from Raksha’s “Birthday Kisses” which you can read here
.net/s/4986825/4/Tales_of_the_Third_Age
The Belfadas greyhound is actually the Italian greyhound as seen in mediaeval art.
Wishing all my readers health and happiness for 2010.
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 Virtuella.
The late afternoon sun streamed through the windows bathing the couch where Aragorn and Faramir sat in its golden rays.
The King rose and looked out at the view of the sea. “A ship is just about to cast anchor,” he told Faramir.
“Shall we go for a walk before dinner?” Faramir sensed his friend’s restlessness.
“That is a good idea. I am stiff from being in the saddle all day,” Aragorn replied.
The two friends were enjoying spending the final days of their coastal tour with Faramir’s uncle. They were looking forward to being able to relax. Although it was an official visit, they would only be expected to attend one meeting and a formal banquet after an official tour of the town.
Their visit to the coastal regions had turned out far better than they expected. Aragorn and Faramir had not expected to be well received in Lamedon after Fontos’ involvement in the conspiracy against Aragorn, but it seemed most of the problems were caused by corrupt officials, rather than opposition to the King. They had encountered several less than worthy officers, whom they intended to see replaced, but on the whole, the rest of the region appeared peaceful, prosperous, and the people either loyal to the King, or indifferent to whoever was in charge as long as they were not oppressed and had sufficient to eat.
After warmly greeting his guests, the Prince of Dol Amroth had left them to rest, while he met with some local farmers to discuss arrangements for the harvest feast. Both men had quickly grown weary of sitting doing nothing save anticipate the fine meal that Faramir’s uncle was sure to give them.
The two men asked a maid to bring their cloaks and hastened outside after having left a message to tell Imrahil that they would be back in time for dinner.
“I would like to show you my favourite walk from when Boromir and I visited here as children,” said Faramir as he led the way towards the cliff path. “Just look at that view of the sea!”
Aragorn realised that he knew the path well from his years of service in Gondor. He found himself wholeheartedly embracing the younger man’s enthusiasm, for it was indeed a beautiful walk with sweeping views of the bay. When they reached a bench, Faramir stopped and traced his fingers tenderly across the carved stonework. “Naneth used to sit here and watch the tide going out while Boromir and I gathered shells on the beach,” he said rather wistfully. ”How I wish she could have met Éowyn and the girls, and known that you were King!”
“I know she would rejoice in your happiness,” he said. “She was a peerless lady. Had I not already given my heart to Arwen, it would have been easy to fall in love with her. I think your uncle would have welcomed the match had either of us been inclined towards it.”
“Then you would have indeed been my father!” said Faramir, pondering how his life might have turned out differently. “That is, if Yavanna had given you children, but then I suppose I might be a very different person.”
Aragorn laughed at his usually level headed Steward’s fanciful train of thought. “Had I sired you, you would not be the person that you are, and I would not have you otherwise,” he said. “Then where would I find such a worthy Steward if you were the Heir instead? I think everything turned out just as it should. We both have wedded the ladies whom we gave our hearts to, as did your father. And you have become the son of my heart, as I believe you were meant to be. You could not be dearer if I, rather than Denethor, had begotten you.” Aragorn patted his friend’s shoulder affectionately.
Faramir’s eyes lit up. The two men sat down beside each other on the bench. They gazed out to sea in companionable silence, and watched a flock of gulls that screamed and wheeled overhead.
“What was that cry?” Aragorn asked suddenly.
“It will be the gulls. They sound almost human at times. The old sailors hold that they are the souls of folk who drowned.”
“I know that story well, “ said Aragorn. “However, I would wager that was no seagull mewing. It sounded like a cat to me!”
“A cat here?” Faramir sounded far from convinced. Nevertheless, he rose to his feet and peered over the cliff edge.
“Be careful, ion nîn!” Aragorn cautioned, not wanting the one he loved as his son to plunge over the edge. He hastened to his side, and gestured to Faramir to take a step back, before peering over himself.
“Have a care!” cautioned Faramir.
“Look, down there!” cried Aragorn. He gestured towards a ledge some ten feet or so beneath them on which cowered a tiny striped kitten.
“Poor little cat!” exclaimed Faramir. “However did it come to get down there?”
“Either it wandered away from its mother or some cruel person tried to throw it into the sea at high tide, but it landed on the ledge,” Aragorn said grimly. “No matter how severely I try to punish those who ill-treat animals, it seems some still ignore my edicts. I am going down to rescue the poor creature.”
“No!” Faramir protested. “Let me climb down instead! You are the King, and I am younger than you.”
“But I am the better climber!” Aragorn retorted. “If you recall, old though I might be, it was I who had to help you climb Mount Mindolluin! Just help lower me on to the ledge, then I can soon rescue the poor kitten.” As he spoke, Aragorn removed his cloak and sword, together with the satchel of healing supplies that he carried everywhere with him.
“Please have a care!” Faramir pleaded as the King carefully lowered himself over the edge of the cliff. For a moment, Aragorn held on with his arms, and then jumped the remaining two feet or so on to the ledge.
“I am safely down,” he called to his anxious Steward who was kneeling on the edge. Aragorn cautiously turned to face the kitten, which gave a high-pitched mew of fright. Its striped fur stood on end.
“I need something to carry it in,” Aragorn called to Faramir. “Tip the healing supplies out of my satchel and hand it down to me, please.”
The Steward tipped out a supply of bandages, salves, and dried athelas leaves on to Aragorn’s cloak. “Is the kitten hurt?” he enquired.
“I can see a few minor scratches, but it does not appear to be seriously injured,” the King replied. He started to sing softly in Elvish. The kitten pricked up its ears listening, a puzzled expression on its tiny whiskery face. Swift as a hawk, Aragorn grabbed the little creature and stuffed it inside the pouch. “Easy now, little one,” he soothed. He secured the worn leather straps tightly.
“Hand it up to me!” Faramir called from above. He lay down on his belly and dangled his arms over the cliff edge, feeling for the satchel as Aragorn handed it up to him; a satchel, which now wriggled and hissed. Faramir straightened up, still clutching the satchel while Aragorn scrambled back over the cliff edge. The King looked anything but kingly. His hair resembled an unruly mop decorated with sand and bits of marram grass, his face and hands were disfigured by grazes and scratches, while his tunic was dusty and torn.
“I fear the sight of you will give my uncle quite a shock,” said Faramir, his casual words concealed the intense relief that he felt at seeing his friend safe.
“You look little better!” Aragorn retorted. ”The front of your tunic is as bad as mine! Come, we had better take this little one home swiftly. You bring my sword and healing supplies. Wrap them in my cloak.”
Much to Aragorn and Faramir’s relief, Imrahil was still occupied with the visiting farmers when they returned Ignoring the servants’ raised eyebrows at their untidy appearance, they hastened to the chambers they had been allocated. Aragorn cautiously unfastened the satchel and lifted out the kitten. He grimaced slightly at the puddle it had left. “At least it is old enough to have a chance of surviving away from its mother,” he remarked. “Hold it still while I examine it.”
The kitten mewed indignantly as Aragorn carefully checked its small body for injuries and applied salve to a few minor cuts. It regarded its rescuers soulfully out of large green eyes.
“We need to give it some milk,” said Faramir after Aragorn was satisfied that he had done all he could.
“Or better still, find a foster mother for it. Does your uncle have barn cats?”
“He keeps a fair number or rats from the harbour would overrun his storerooms,” Faramir replied.
Aragorn carefully carried the kitten towards Imrahil’s main hall. It was calmer now and purred when the King and Steward took turns to stroke its stripy fur.
Suddenly a Belfalas greyhound with fine blue-grey fur ran towards them, and gave a bark.
“Heel, Mista!” called Imrahil, emerging from his study. The dog hesitated, and then lifted her head as she sighted the King of Gondor. Then she sprang forward with amazing swiftness and leaped up upon him, trying to reach the kitten. Even when she stood upright on her two back legs, Mista's small front paws did not reach Aragorn's thighs; but the kitten took fright. To the King’s dismay, the kitten wriggled from his grasp and fell to the floor less than a foot from the dog!
“No!” he cried as Faramir made a frantic, but doomed grab for the tiny animal, which had landed safely, albeit unsteadily on its four paws. Mista immediately picked up the kitten in her jaws.
King and Steward froze in horror convinced that the dog would kill the hapless kitten.
“Leave it!” cried Imrahil.
Mista ignored him, but instead of biting the kitten, she carried it towards her basket and dropped it inside. She flopped down on her side and within moments the kitten was greedily suckling one of Mista's full teats.
“She lost her puppies and has been pining for them,” Imrahil told them.
“We found the kitten abandoned on the cliff, uncle,” said Faramir. “We were hoping that one of your barn cats might serve as a foster mother.”
“I think Mista has claimed the kitten for her own,” smiled Imrahil. “It seems I will have a new mouser once he has grown.”
Aragorn nodded. Much though he would have liked to take the kitten home with him, it would have been hard to confine it during the trip back to Minas Tirith. And even with a foster-mother to nurse it, the kitten was too young to take so long a journey.
000
“Mista seems a remarkable dog,” Aragorn remarked as the two friends prepared for dinner. “I thought your uncle’s hounds were bred solely for the chase.”
“Belfalas greyhounds are special,” said Faramir. He pulled a tunic embroidered with the swan of Dol Amroth over his head. “I can just about recall my mother’s faithful hound; we called her Mousie. She loved all animals, did my mother.”
“Then she would be proud of you today,” said Aragorn and smiled.
A/n The idea of a Belfadas greyhound belonging to Faramir’s mother is borrowed from Raksha’s “Birthday Kisses” which you can read here
.net/s/4986825/4/Tales_of_the_Third_Age
The Belfadas greyhound is actually the Italian greyhound as seen in mediaeval art.
Wishing all my readers health and happiness for 2010.
Tuesday, October 06, 2009
Stranger at the Gates by Linda Hoyland
The characters are the property of the Tolkien Estate. No profit has been, nor will be made from this story.
And thou shalt rejoice in thy feast, thou, and thy son, and thy daughter, and thy manservant, and thy maidservant, and the Levite, the stranger, and the fatherless, and the widow, that are within thy gates. . - The Bible – Deuteronomy 16.13-16.
With grateful thanks to Raksha
“A traveller begs leave to see you, my lady. He claims to be of the House of Elrond, but he is no Elf!”
A stab of fear pierced Galadriel’s heart. Long had she foreseen this day, yet hoped her foresight would prove false. If she bade the intruder leave her borders maybe the danger would depart with him? But no, whatever threatened Arwen had already come to pass. Her beloved granddaughter had grown sadder and quieter these past years; while her laughter was seldom heard. Arwen had spoken of the love professed by one of her father's mortal fosterlings. But the stars had shone again, if only briefly, in Undómiel’s eyes, when she spoke of the young Man. Arwen had claimed she did not return his affections, yet there was a gentleness, a wistfulness in her voice when she spoke of Aragorn son of Arathorn that belied her certainty.
And now, it seemed that the very Dunadan had walked out of Arwen's dreams into Galadriel's own realm. She would, Galadriel decided, at least speak with the Man. Arwen had gone riding with Celeborn, she did not need to know; at least not yet.
“Bring him to me, Haldir,” she commanded and sat back in her chair, staring at the silver and green walls of the chamber without seeing them.
Within the hour Haldir returned with the traveller. When Galadriel beheld him she could have laughed. This stranger take Arwen away from her? Absurd! His clothes were torn and filthy. Galadriel struggled not to wrinkle her nose with distaste. The intruder smelled strongly of dried mud, horses, and Orcs! He walked with a limp and his face was disfigured with bruises.
“Welcome to Lothlórien, stranger,” she said. “I am Galadriel, Lady of the Golden Wood. What brings you along paths that few mortal men have ever trod?”
“I am Aragorn, son of Arathorn,” replied the stranger in perfect Sindarin with a slight accent of the North. “I was raised in the House of Elrond, and told by the Wise there that I might find shelter here if need drove me thither. I have travelled long and am sore weary after many labours. Dark creatures have pursued me almost to your gates. I beg leave to rest here for a little while.”
Galadriel said nothing but simply looked into his eyes. Unlike many: Elves as well as Men, he did not flinch from her gaze. The discomfort he must have felt was well concealed. For a moment the traveller appeared to be trying to veil his thoughts as if from long custom. He then collected himself, remembering he was amongst the Eldar. Galadriel’s mind freely probed his. She sensed above all, a noble heart, greater than any of the Secondborn for many a long generation, but one shadowed with weariness, sorrow and pain. His eyes held her attention most of all, large and grey they spoke of courage, compassion and a noble heart. Although clearly a mortal man, there was something Elvish about him, but of course, the line that Elrond fostered were his brother’s kin, like him descended from Lúthien the Fair.
“You may bide here a while,” she said. Uneasy as she might feel, the laws of hospitality demanded that she grant him food and shelter.
“I thank you, my lady,” said Aragorn. He promptly collapsed in a dead faint.
Galadriel rose from her seat, and overcoming her distaste, laid a hand upon the stranger’s brow. He did not appear feverish. She surmised he was simply exhausted. ”Send for a healer!” she ordered. “Then see he is given a bath and put to bed. And someone deal with those filthy rags he is wearing!”
As soon as the stranger had been taken away, Galadriel bade her handmaids sprinkle sweet blossoms around the chamber to freshen the air. She then walked alone to her garden and poured water into the silver bowl that was her mirror. At first the clear spring water looked as clouded as that from a muddy pond. She forced herself to calm her racing thoughts. She must know if this man was indeed the one whose coming she had foreseen. His appearance was that of a vagabond, while his heart was that of a hero. Was Arwen doomed to bind herself to this man and fade and die a mortal like Lúthien before her, forever lost to her people? Surely that could not be? Not her only granddaughter, the fair Evenstar. Galadriel smiled wryly thinking how disappointed she had been when the babe had been born with the dark hair of the Noldor, rather than silver locks of her mother or golden tresses of her grandmother. She had grown, though, to be so fair, that many wondered were she Lúthien reborn. Not only was Arwen fair, but also loving and wise.
Galadriel looked again in the mirror. This time she saw a battle raging and the stranger was leading the men to victory and being offered the Crown of Gondor by a man as like unto him as close kindred.. Then came another vision of Middle-earth, desolate under the Dark Lord’s power. Vision after vision followed of Arwen alone, desolate as frost in winter, or with the man at her side and fair children, her eyes full of laughter. It seemed that not only Arwen’s fate was tied to this man, but all of Middle-earth’s.
Heavy of heart, Galadriel wandered amongst the mallorns: she had always known that one day the Dark Lord’s increasing power might force her to leave her cherished realm, but had expected to travel with all her family to the Undying Lands where Celebrian awaited them. Now she feared that was not to be, but if she tried to protect her granddaughter from her destiny, a dark fate would befall the world of Men, while Arwen would never find happiness until the breaking of the world. Galadriel loved her granddaughter; there was only course she could now take.
***
A/N A story of Strider.
Written for the Teitho Challenge “Elven Realms”
The characters are the property of the Tolkien Estate. No profit has been, nor will be made from this story.
I met a lady in the meads,
Full beautiful—a faery’s child,
Her hair was long, her foot was light,
And her eyes were wild. -Keats
With grateful thanks to Raksha.
Aragorn, son of Arathorn lay pale and still upon a low bed.
“How is our guest?” Galadriel asked the attendant healer.
“He is exhausted beyond even what a tough man can bear, and he is indeed one of the strongest of mortal men I have ever seen,” said the healer. “He has dark dreams and in his sleep he speaks of the Black Land. Who knows what horrors he has witnessed?”
“Is he injured?” asked the Lady.
“Not seriously, my lady. I have uncovered but cuts, bruises and a sprained ankle. Nothing that rest and good food will not put right.”
Galadriel pulled back the blankets a few inches. The Man had the same lean, muscular build as an Elf, though at present he lacked sufficient flesh. The scars of old wounds disfigured his body, but nothing appeared to ail him that Elvish-healing arts could not swiftly remedy. Covering him again, she gently took his hand, a scratched and calloused hand, but at the same time both strong and slender.
He stirred and in a troubled sleep called out Arwen’s name. Galadriel stood looking at him for a long time
“When he awakens,” she told the healer at last. “I would have him remain here with food and drink until he is fully recovered. Treat his old wounds that they may no longer mar him.”
***
A week later Galadriel again went to visit her guest. This time, he was sitting up in a chair dressed in a loose robe. His hair had been trimmed and his beard shaved, making him look more like an Elf than ever.
“My lady.” Aragorn rose and inclined his head. “I apologise for when we last met. Orcs and Wargs had pursued me almost to your gates and my horse was slain beneath me. I fear I succumbed to weakness.”
“Lesser Men would have succumbed to the Enemy long ago,” said Galadriel. “I trust you are now recovered? I should like you to dine with me tonight.”
“Gladly would I, my lady,” said Aragorn. Alas, I have no clothing save this robe I am wearing, and even that is borrowed garb.”
“Your own clothing is being washed and mended,” said Galadriel, unwrapping a parcel that she had carried tucked beneath her arm.” I have brought fitting raiment for you” It contained fine linens together with a silver and white tunic and breeches. She then drew forth a bright gem from the folds of her gown.
“My lady!” Aragorn protested. “These garments are fit for a prince!”
“Are you not of the line of Elros Tar-Minyatur?” said Galadriel. “I would have you robed in a manner fitting of your lineage. But before we dine, I suggest that you take a walk beneath the trees. They are laden with golden flowers at this time of year. Few mortal Men have had the chance to behold them.”
“Thank you, my lady, I will indeed,” said Aragorn graciously. “How long have I been here?”
“Seven days in your reckoning,” said Galadriel.
“I had lost count. It seems time as no meaning in this Elven Realm,” said Aragorn. “It could have been a day, a week, or a month I had tarried here.”
“You must remain with us until you fully regain your strength,” said Galadriel. “I will see you at dinner.”
000
“Come walk with me beneath the trees before we dine,” Galadriel said to her granddaughter early that evening.
The two women strode arm in arm admiring the Mallorns. It was a perfect spring evening. The air smelt sweet with the many flowers. A thrush sang melodiously in the trees, while the setting sun made the blossoms gleam like burnished gold.
Suddenly a man appeared from the opposite direction, like unto an Elf Lord from the Blessed Realm itself. Arwen stopped suddenly and gazed at the approaching figure as if transfixed. He likewise did the same.
Galadriel turned and walked away. For good or ill, Arwen’s doom was decided.
The End
The characters are the property of the Tolkien Estate. No profit has been, nor will be made from this story.
And thou shalt rejoice in thy feast, thou, and thy son, and thy daughter, and thy manservant, and thy maidservant, and the Levite, the stranger, and the fatherless, and the widow, that are within thy gates. . - The Bible – Deuteronomy 16.13-16.
With grateful thanks to Raksha
“A traveller begs leave to see you, my lady. He claims to be of the House of Elrond, but he is no Elf!”
A stab of fear pierced Galadriel’s heart. Long had she foreseen this day, yet hoped her foresight would prove false. If she bade the intruder leave her borders maybe the danger would depart with him? But no, whatever threatened Arwen had already come to pass. Her beloved granddaughter had grown sadder and quieter these past years; while her laughter was seldom heard. Arwen had spoken of the love professed by one of her father's mortal fosterlings. But the stars had shone again, if only briefly, in Undómiel’s eyes, when she spoke of the young Man. Arwen had claimed she did not return his affections, yet there was a gentleness, a wistfulness in her voice when she spoke of Aragorn son of Arathorn that belied her certainty.
And now, it seemed that the very Dunadan had walked out of Arwen's dreams into Galadriel's own realm. She would, Galadriel decided, at least speak with the Man. Arwen had gone riding with Celeborn, she did not need to know; at least not yet.
“Bring him to me, Haldir,” she commanded and sat back in her chair, staring at the silver and green walls of the chamber without seeing them.
Within the hour Haldir returned with the traveller. When Galadriel beheld him she could have laughed. This stranger take Arwen away from her? Absurd! His clothes were torn and filthy. Galadriel struggled not to wrinkle her nose with distaste. The intruder smelled strongly of dried mud, horses, and Orcs! He walked with a limp and his face was disfigured with bruises.
“Welcome to Lothlórien, stranger,” she said. “I am Galadriel, Lady of the Golden Wood. What brings you along paths that few mortal men have ever trod?”
“I am Aragorn, son of Arathorn,” replied the stranger in perfect Sindarin with a slight accent of the North. “I was raised in the House of Elrond, and told by the Wise there that I might find shelter here if need drove me thither. I have travelled long and am sore weary after many labours. Dark creatures have pursued me almost to your gates. I beg leave to rest here for a little while.”
Galadriel said nothing but simply looked into his eyes. Unlike many: Elves as well as Men, he did not flinch from her gaze. The discomfort he must have felt was well concealed. For a moment the traveller appeared to be trying to veil his thoughts as if from long custom. He then collected himself, remembering he was amongst the Eldar. Galadriel’s mind freely probed his. She sensed above all, a noble heart, greater than any of the Secondborn for many a long generation, but one shadowed with weariness, sorrow and pain. His eyes held her attention most of all, large and grey they spoke of courage, compassion and a noble heart. Although clearly a mortal man, there was something Elvish about him, but of course, the line that Elrond fostered were his brother’s kin, like him descended from Lúthien the Fair.
“You may bide here a while,” she said. Uneasy as she might feel, the laws of hospitality demanded that she grant him food and shelter.
“I thank you, my lady,” said Aragorn. He promptly collapsed in a dead faint.
Galadriel rose from her seat, and overcoming her distaste, laid a hand upon the stranger’s brow. He did not appear feverish. She surmised he was simply exhausted. ”Send for a healer!” she ordered. “Then see he is given a bath and put to bed. And someone deal with those filthy rags he is wearing!”
As soon as the stranger had been taken away, Galadriel bade her handmaids sprinkle sweet blossoms around the chamber to freshen the air. She then walked alone to her garden and poured water into the silver bowl that was her mirror. At first the clear spring water looked as clouded as that from a muddy pond. She forced herself to calm her racing thoughts. She must know if this man was indeed the one whose coming she had foreseen. His appearance was that of a vagabond, while his heart was that of a hero. Was Arwen doomed to bind herself to this man and fade and die a mortal like Lúthien before her, forever lost to her people? Surely that could not be? Not her only granddaughter, the fair Evenstar. Galadriel smiled wryly thinking how disappointed she had been when the babe had been born with the dark hair of the Noldor, rather than silver locks of her mother or golden tresses of her grandmother. She had grown, though, to be so fair, that many wondered were she Lúthien reborn. Not only was Arwen fair, but also loving and wise.
Galadriel looked again in the mirror. This time she saw a battle raging and the stranger was leading the men to victory and being offered the Crown of Gondor by a man as like unto him as close kindred.. Then came another vision of Middle-earth, desolate under the Dark Lord’s power. Vision after vision followed of Arwen alone, desolate as frost in winter, or with the man at her side and fair children, her eyes full of laughter. It seemed that not only Arwen’s fate was tied to this man, but all of Middle-earth’s.
Heavy of heart, Galadriel wandered amongst the mallorns: she had always known that one day the Dark Lord’s increasing power might force her to leave her cherished realm, but had expected to travel with all her family to the Undying Lands where Celebrian awaited them. Now she feared that was not to be, but if she tried to protect her granddaughter from her destiny, a dark fate would befall the world of Men, while Arwen would never find happiness until the breaking of the world. Galadriel loved her granddaughter; there was only course she could now take.
***
A/N A story of Strider.
Written for the Teitho Challenge “Elven Realms”
The characters are the property of the Tolkien Estate. No profit has been, nor will be made from this story.
I met a lady in the meads,
Full beautiful—a faery’s child,
Her hair was long, her foot was light,
And her eyes were wild. -Keats
With grateful thanks to Raksha.
Aragorn, son of Arathorn lay pale and still upon a low bed.
“How is our guest?” Galadriel asked the attendant healer.
“He is exhausted beyond even what a tough man can bear, and he is indeed one of the strongest of mortal men I have ever seen,” said the healer. “He has dark dreams and in his sleep he speaks of the Black Land. Who knows what horrors he has witnessed?”
“Is he injured?” asked the Lady.
“Not seriously, my lady. I have uncovered but cuts, bruises and a sprained ankle. Nothing that rest and good food will not put right.”
Galadriel pulled back the blankets a few inches. The Man had the same lean, muscular build as an Elf, though at present he lacked sufficient flesh. The scars of old wounds disfigured his body, but nothing appeared to ail him that Elvish-healing arts could not swiftly remedy. Covering him again, she gently took his hand, a scratched and calloused hand, but at the same time both strong and slender.
He stirred and in a troubled sleep called out Arwen’s name. Galadriel stood looking at him for a long time
“When he awakens,” she told the healer at last. “I would have him remain here with food and drink until he is fully recovered. Treat his old wounds that they may no longer mar him.”
***
A week later Galadriel again went to visit her guest. This time, he was sitting up in a chair dressed in a loose robe. His hair had been trimmed and his beard shaved, making him look more like an Elf than ever.
“My lady.” Aragorn rose and inclined his head. “I apologise for when we last met. Orcs and Wargs had pursued me almost to your gates and my horse was slain beneath me. I fear I succumbed to weakness.”
“Lesser Men would have succumbed to the Enemy long ago,” said Galadriel. “I trust you are now recovered? I should like you to dine with me tonight.”
“Gladly would I, my lady,” said Aragorn. Alas, I have no clothing save this robe I am wearing, and even that is borrowed garb.”
“Your own clothing is being washed and mended,” said Galadriel, unwrapping a parcel that she had carried tucked beneath her arm.” I have brought fitting raiment for you” It contained fine linens together with a silver and white tunic and breeches. She then drew forth a bright gem from the folds of her gown.
“My lady!” Aragorn protested. “These garments are fit for a prince!”
“Are you not of the line of Elros Tar-Minyatur?” said Galadriel. “I would have you robed in a manner fitting of your lineage. But before we dine, I suggest that you take a walk beneath the trees. They are laden with golden flowers at this time of year. Few mortal Men have had the chance to behold them.”
“Thank you, my lady, I will indeed,” said Aragorn graciously. “How long have I been here?”
“Seven days in your reckoning,” said Galadriel.
“I had lost count. It seems time as no meaning in this Elven Realm,” said Aragorn. “It could have been a day, a week, or a month I had tarried here.”
“You must remain with us until you fully regain your strength,” said Galadriel. “I will see you at dinner.”
000
“Come walk with me beneath the trees before we dine,” Galadriel said to her granddaughter early that evening.
The two women strode arm in arm admiring the Mallorns. It was a perfect spring evening. The air smelt sweet with the many flowers. A thrush sang melodiously in the trees, while the setting sun made the blossoms gleam like burnished gold.
Suddenly a man appeared from the opposite direction, like unto an Elf Lord from the Blessed Realm itself. Arwen stopped suddenly and gazed at the approaching figure as if transfixed. He likewise did the same.
Galadriel turned and walked away. For good or ill, Arwen’s doom was decided.
The End
He that is least among you all
The characters are the property of the Tolkien Estate. No profit has been or will be made from this story.
For he that is least among you all, the same shall be great. The Bible -Luke 9-48
With grateful thanks to Virtuella.
Our people would be honoured if you were to tour our town,” said the reeve as Aragorn and Faramir emerged from the school in Belfalas.
“We should enjoy that,” Aragorn said politely.
“Tonight there will be a banquet in your honour,” the reeve continued. “Our fishermen have supplied the best of their catch. We have many varieties of sea fish as well as crab and lobster for your lordships to enjoy.”
Aragorn smiled. He was especially partial to seafood. “Your words make us hungry!” he said. “My wife will be sorry that she missed such delights.”
“Éowyn is still suspicious of seafood!” Faramir whispered as soon as the two men were alone. “I, too, am looking forward to the banquet. I wish our ladies were beside us, though.”
“So do I, but our children need them more at present,” said Aragorn. “Eldarion is running everywhere at present. Arwen fears his nurse could not catch up with him in time if there were any danger.”
“I wonder how many new words Elestelle will have learned while we are away?” Faramir mused rather wistfully.
“No doubt she will greet with a nursery song sung in Quenya!” Aragorn teased.
“She is only not quite three yet, but I think she is exceptionally gifted,” Faramir replied. “Of course, I am not impartial!”
“She is clever and advanced for her age,” Aragorn responded. “I wonder what Arwen and Eldarion are doing as we speak?”
“Éowyn will be playing in the garden with Elestelle and Elbeth, I imagine,” said Faramir, as they followed the reeve to their lodging.
000
King and Steward, together with their guards and the leading townsfolk processed along winding roads. Many people came out to greet them, some appeared simply curious, while others gaped open-mouthed. Aragorn and Faramir surmised that many of the country folk had little idea of who they were. A few older men, obviously veterans of the war, cheered the King and Steward. Aragorn thought he recognised one or two men who had ridden to the Black Gate with him and paused to speak them.
They rounded a bend in the road. Suddenly, a little girl, holding the hand of a youth of about seventeen summers, came forward to offer a posy of flowers to Aragorn. He reined in Roheryn rather sharply to take the blossoms from her. The great horse stumbled as a mighty hoof caught in a pothole. Aragorn kept his seat, but Roheryn’s flaying hooves caught the youth, who fell backwards with a cry, clutching his arm. Aragorn immediately dismounted, telling a guard to keep hold of Roheryn’s bridle.
“Are you hurt, lad?” he asked the boy anxiously.
“My arm!” the youth groaned.
“You need not concern yourself with these peasants, my lord,” said the reeve. He eyed the boy with obvious distaste.
Aragorn was already kneeling in the dust beside the young man and feeling the injured arm. “I fear your arm is broken,” the King pronounced.
“I will see a healer is summoned, my lord,” said the reeve looking aghast at Aragorn. “The banquet awaits us, my lord.”
“I am a healer,” said Aragorn in a tone that brokered no argument. “I feel responsible for this lad’s accident, and must endeavour to put things right as best I may. Where do you live, lad?” he asked the boy.
The youth cried out with pain.
“We dwell in the cottages yonder with our mother,” said the little girl, finding her voice. She pointed across a field to where a row of small cottages stood. “Mardil is my brother.”
“We will take Mardil home then,” said Aragorn. Faramir dismounted and helped Aragorn to gently lift the youth and set him astride Roheryn. The reeve raised his eyebrows in horror at the King and Steward’s actions.
I fear the feast will have to wait until I have tended this young man,” he told the reeve. “I would be grateful if you would ride ahead and tell the guests that we shall be delayed.”
“And you shall ride with me,” said Faramir to the little girl. “My horse is called Iavas. What is your name?”
“I’m Finnraen,” said the little girl. She looked fearfully at her brother. “Is Mardil going to die? My daddy died.”
“The King will heal your brother,” said Faramir confidently, lifting the child onto his mare and mounting behind her.
The riders soon reached Mardil’s dwelling. At the sound of the approaching horsemen, a thin, shabbily dressed woman came outside. She cried out in dismay when Aragorn and a guard lifted her whey-faced son down from his horse and carefully carried him within. “What has happened?” she cried as Aragorn laid the boy down on the bed. Faramir followed close behind with the little girl while the guards waited outside.
“Your son has broken his arm, Mistress,” said Aragorn, dismissing the guard to wait outside.
“The nice men brought us home after the horse kicked Mardil,” Finnraen added.
“Who are you, master?” asked the woman, hugging her little girl tightly.
“A healer,” Aragorn answered simply. “Can you set water to boil, please?”
The natural authority in Aragorn’s tone made her do as she was bidden without question.
Aragorn hurried back outside to fetch the satchel of healing supplies he always carried with him. After asking the woman for a cup, he measured out a dose of poppy juice and gave it to Mardil. “I need to cut off your shirt to examine your arm properly,” he told the lad once he had drunk the pain killing draught.
“ Must you? I have no other!” said the boy in dismay.
“I should be able to mend it if you cut carefully, sir,” said his mother.
“That is soon remedied,” said Faramir, going outside and returning almost immediately with his pack. He rummaged inside it and drew out a clean shirt. “This might be somewhat large, mistress, but it should suffice until we can find a better shirt for your son.”
Mardil’s mother fingered the garment in wonder. ”But this is fine linen, fit for a lord!” she exclaimed.
“No matter, so long as it clothes your son,” said Faramir.
Mardil weakly nodded his agreement as Aragorn took up his dagger and cut the shirt from his body. The boy groaned when the King gently felt his arm. “It is a clean break, which should heal well,” the King pronounced. ”It needs setting though, which I fear will not be pleasant. Have you a neighbour who could look after your daughter, mistress?” He threw some crushed bark from his healing supplies into the pot of water boiling on the fire as he spoke.
“My neighbour would mind her,” said the woman.” Go, Finnraen, and stay with Mistress Elwyn until I call you.”
The little girl hesitated, casting a worried look at her brother.
“Do as mother says,” said Mardil firmly. “I will fare well enough with mother and the healer.” He had regained a little colour as the poppy juice took effect.
As soon as the child had gone, Aragorn checked Mardil’s heartbeat. Once satisfied the boy was strong enough for the gruelling procedure, he asked Faramir and the boy’s mother to hold the lad down while he set the broken bone. He worked swiftly and skilfully, but Mardil was left groaning in agony with sweat pouring from his brow. ”Easy now, lad, the worst is over now,” said Aragorn, tucking the blankets around him and starting to rub the back of his neck, using an Elven healing skill.I am only sorry you should have to suffer this.”
“It was an accident and not your fault,” said Mardil. “Will it heal quickly?”
“Do not concern yourself about anything other than getting well,” said Aragorn. He took the pot from the fire and put it on the hearth to cool. Inside was a thick syrup. “I am going to wrap your arm in a cloth and cover it with this paste,” said the King. “It will set hard to allow the bone to knit. When it falls off in about two months, you will be healed.”
“Two months!” said Mardil in dismay. “My family will starve if I cannot work, my lord!”
Faramir reached inside his tunic and withdrew his purse. He took out several coins and handed them to Mardil’s mother. She gazed at them in astonishment. ”I cannot take these! This is more than we earn in a year! You must be lords of great wealth!”
“Take it!” Faramir said calmly. “It is the least we can do. Your son would not lie injured had we not come to this town.”
Mardil groaned again. Aragorn knelt beside the bed holding his hands a few inches over above Mardil’s arm, his features fixed in intense concentration. The boy sighed as the pain eased and closed his eyes. Aragorn then bandaged the arm and coated it with the sticky paste.
Mardil’s mother stared at him with growing recognition. “ You are visiting this town? You have the hands that heal? My lord...you cannot be?” she gasped, sinking to her knees.
“He is the King, mother,” said Mardil sleepily. “His horse shied and kicked my arm when Finnraen gave him some flowers.”
“The King, here in my cottage tending my son?” said Mardil’s mother, turning pale.
“It was my responsibility, mistress,” said Aragorn gravely. “Rise and be at ease. We will take our leave now. If you have need of me before I depart on the morrow, please send me word. I believe your son will heal completely within a few weeks, but if he should not, send word to me and I will see that Mardil is treated in the Houses of Healing in Minas Tirith. Farewell!” With that he left the cottage, together with Faramir.
“Well, I never!” said Mardil’s mother.” Whoever would have thought the King would care so much for folk like us?”
“We may not be able to depart tomorrow,” said Aragorn when they rode away towards the long overdue feast. ”It matters little, though, so long as I right the wrong I did to that boy!”
“Do not be so hard on yourself,” said Faramir. ”It was hardly your fault that Roheryn shied. You are the most responsible man that I know. You care deeply for your people.”
“I try, Faramir, I try,” said Aragorn gravely. ”What would I not give now for a simple supper by the fire, but again duty calls.” He glanced back over his shoulder to catch a last glimpse of the cottage before riding resolutely towards the feasting hall.
A/N I was inspired by an article I read about the cottonwood tree for Aragorn’s treatment.
http://www.fascinatingearth.com/stories/How_to_Fix_a_Broken_Arm.HTM
I am using artistic licence and assuming the Elves knew of some old world equivalent.
This is a longer version of a ficlet written for the prompt “Responsibility” at the AA Group.
The characters are the property of the Tolkien Estate. No profit has been or will be made from this story.
For he that is least among you all, the same shall be great. The Bible -Luke 9-48
With grateful thanks to Virtuella.
Our people would be honoured if you were to tour our town,” said the reeve as Aragorn and Faramir emerged from the school in Belfalas.
“We should enjoy that,” Aragorn said politely.
“Tonight there will be a banquet in your honour,” the reeve continued. “Our fishermen have supplied the best of their catch. We have many varieties of sea fish as well as crab and lobster for your lordships to enjoy.”
Aragorn smiled. He was especially partial to seafood. “Your words make us hungry!” he said. “My wife will be sorry that she missed such delights.”
“Éowyn is still suspicious of seafood!” Faramir whispered as soon as the two men were alone. “I, too, am looking forward to the banquet. I wish our ladies were beside us, though.”
“So do I, but our children need them more at present,” said Aragorn. “Eldarion is running everywhere at present. Arwen fears his nurse could not catch up with him in time if there were any danger.”
“I wonder how many new words Elestelle will have learned while we are away?” Faramir mused rather wistfully.
“No doubt she will greet with a nursery song sung in Quenya!” Aragorn teased.
“She is only not quite three yet, but I think she is exceptionally gifted,” Faramir replied. “Of course, I am not impartial!”
“She is clever and advanced for her age,” Aragorn responded. “I wonder what Arwen and Eldarion are doing as we speak?”
“Éowyn will be playing in the garden with Elestelle and Elbeth, I imagine,” said Faramir, as they followed the reeve to their lodging.
000
King and Steward, together with their guards and the leading townsfolk processed along winding roads. Many people came out to greet them, some appeared simply curious, while others gaped open-mouthed. Aragorn and Faramir surmised that many of the country folk had little idea of who they were. A few older men, obviously veterans of the war, cheered the King and Steward. Aragorn thought he recognised one or two men who had ridden to the Black Gate with him and paused to speak them.
They rounded a bend in the road. Suddenly, a little girl, holding the hand of a youth of about seventeen summers, came forward to offer a posy of flowers to Aragorn. He reined in Roheryn rather sharply to take the blossoms from her. The great horse stumbled as a mighty hoof caught in a pothole. Aragorn kept his seat, but Roheryn’s flaying hooves caught the youth, who fell backwards with a cry, clutching his arm. Aragorn immediately dismounted, telling a guard to keep hold of Roheryn’s bridle.
“Are you hurt, lad?” he asked the boy anxiously.
“My arm!” the youth groaned.
“You need not concern yourself with these peasants, my lord,” said the reeve. He eyed the boy with obvious distaste.
Aragorn was already kneeling in the dust beside the young man and feeling the injured arm. “I fear your arm is broken,” the King pronounced.
“I will see a healer is summoned, my lord,” said the reeve looking aghast at Aragorn. “The banquet awaits us, my lord.”
“I am a healer,” said Aragorn in a tone that brokered no argument. “I feel responsible for this lad’s accident, and must endeavour to put things right as best I may. Where do you live, lad?” he asked the boy.
The youth cried out with pain.
“We dwell in the cottages yonder with our mother,” said the little girl, finding her voice. She pointed across a field to where a row of small cottages stood. “Mardil is my brother.”
“We will take Mardil home then,” said Aragorn. Faramir dismounted and helped Aragorn to gently lift the youth and set him astride Roheryn. The reeve raised his eyebrows in horror at the King and Steward’s actions.
I fear the feast will have to wait until I have tended this young man,” he told the reeve. “I would be grateful if you would ride ahead and tell the guests that we shall be delayed.”
“And you shall ride with me,” said Faramir to the little girl. “My horse is called Iavas. What is your name?”
“I’m Finnraen,” said the little girl. She looked fearfully at her brother. “Is Mardil going to die? My daddy died.”
“The King will heal your brother,” said Faramir confidently, lifting the child onto his mare and mounting behind her.
The riders soon reached Mardil’s dwelling. At the sound of the approaching horsemen, a thin, shabbily dressed woman came outside. She cried out in dismay when Aragorn and a guard lifted her whey-faced son down from his horse and carefully carried him within. “What has happened?” she cried as Aragorn laid the boy down on the bed. Faramir followed close behind with the little girl while the guards waited outside.
“Your son has broken his arm, Mistress,” said Aragorn, dismissing the guard to wait outside.
“The nice men brought us home after the horse kicked Mardil,” Finnraen added.
“Who are you, master?” asked the woman, hugging her little girl tightly.
“A healer,” Aragorn answered simply. “Can you set water to boil, please?”
The natural authority in Aragorn’s tone made her do as she was bidden without question.
Aragorn hurried back outside to fetch the satchel of healing supplies he always carried with him. After asking the woman for a cup, he measured out a dose of poppy juice and gave it to Mardil. “I need to cut off your shirt to examine your arm properly,” he told the lad once he had drunk the pain killing draught.
“ Must you? I have no other!” said the boy in dismay.
“I should be able to mend it if you cut carefully, sir,” said his mother.
“That is soon remedied,” said Faramir, going outside and returning almost immediately with his pack. He rummaged inside it and drew out a clean shirt. “This might be somewhat large, mistress, but it should suffice until we can find a better shirt for your son.”
Mardil’s mother fingered the garment in wonder. ”But this is fine linen, fit for a lord!” she exclaimed.
“No matter, so long as it clothes your son,” said Faramir.
Mardil weakly nodded his agreement as Aragorn took up his dagger and cut the shirt from his body. The boy groaned when the King gently felt his arm. “It is a clean break, which should heal well,” the King pronounced. ”It needs setting though, which I fear will not be pleasant. Have you a neighbour who could look after your daughter, mistress?” He threw some crushed bark from his healing supplies into the pot of water boiling on the fire as he spoke.
“My neighbour would mind her,” said the woman.” Go, Finnraen, and stay with Mistress Elwyn until I call you.”
The little girl hesitated, casting a worried look at her brother.
“Do as mother says,” said Mardil firmly. “I will fare well enough with mother and the healer.” He had regained a little colour as the poppy juice took effect.
As soon as the child had gone, Aragorn checked Mardil’s heartbeat. Once satisfied the boy was strong enough for the gruelling procedure, he asked Faramir and the boy’s mother to hold the lad down while he set the broken bone. He worked swiftly and skilfully, but Mardil was left groaning in agony with sweat pouring from his brow. ”Easy now, lad, the worst is over now,” said Aragorn, tucking the blankets around him and starting to rub the back of his neck, using an Elven healing skill.I am only sorry you should have to suffer this.”
“It was an accident and not your fault,” said Mardil. “Will it heal quickly?”
“Do not concern yourself about anything other than getting well,” said Aragorn. He took the pot from the fire and put it on the hearth to cool. Inside was a thick syrup. “I am going to wrap your arm in a cloth and cover it with this paste,” said the King. “It will set hard to allow the bone to knit. When it falls off in about two months, you will be healed.”
“Two months!” said Mardil in dismay. “My family will starve if I cannot work, my lord!”
Faramir reached inside his tunic and withdrew his purse. He took out several coins and handed them to Mardil’s mother. She gazed at them in astonishment. ”I cannot take these! This is more than we earn in a year! You must be lords of great wealth!”
“Take it!” Faramir said calmly. “It is the least we can do. Your son would not lie injured had we not come to this town.”
Mardil groaned again. Aragorn knelt beside the bed holding his hands a few inches over above Mardil’s arm, his features fixed in intense concentration. The boy sighed as the pain eased and closed his eyes. Aragorn then bandaged the arm and coated it with the sticky paste.
Mardil’s mother stared at him with growing recognition. “ You are visiting this town? You have the hands that heal? My lord...you cannot be?” she gasped, sinking to her knees.
“He is the King, mother,” said Mardil sleepily. “His horse shied and kicked my arm when Finnraen gave him some flowers.”
“The King, here in my cottage tending my son?” said Mardil’s mother, turning pale.
“It was my responsibility, mistress,” said Aragorn gravely. “Rise and be at ease. We will take our leave now. If you have need of me before I depart on the morrow, please send me word. I believe your son will heal completely within a few weeks, but if he should not, send word to me and I will see that Mardil is treated in the Houses of Healing in Minas Tirith. Farewell!” With that he left the cottage, together with Faramir.
“Well, I never!” said Mardil’s mother.” Whoever would have thought the King would care so much for folk like us?”
“We may not be able to depart tomorrow,” said Aragorn when they rode away towards the long overdue feast. ”It matters little, though, so long as I right the wrong I did to that boy!”
“Do not be so hard on yourself,” said Faramir. ”It was hardly your fault that Roheryn shied. You are the most responsible man that I know. You care deeply for your people.”
“I try, Faramir, I try,” said Aragorn gravely. ”What would I not give now for a simple supper by the fire, but again duty calls.” He glanced back over his shoulder to catch a last glimpse of the cottage before riding resolutely towards the feasting hall.
A/N I was inspired by an article I read about the cottonwood tree for Aragorn’s treatment.
http://www.fascinatingearth.com/stories/How_to_Fix_a_Broken_Arm.HTM
I am using artistic licence and assuming the Elves knew of some old world equivalent.
This is a longer version of a ficlet written for the prompt “Responsibility” at the AA Group.
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