These characters all belong to the estate of J.R.R. Tolkien. This story was written for pleasure and not for financial gain.
I will be to him a Father, and he shall be to me a Son. - The Bible – Hebrews 1.5
With grateful thank to Raksha
“The scar on your shoulder!” Faramir cried.
“I have told you, ion nîn, it troubles me no longer, “ Aragorn said gently. ”I have come to regard it as a mark of your deep love and loyalty.”
Faramir continued to stare at Aragorn’s shoulder as if under some spell. He took a few steps forward and reached out with his hand to touch it. “The brand has gone!” he exclaimed in a tone that suggested he could hardly believe what he was seeing.
“What?” Aragorn looked down at his shoulder. The skin, disfigured for months by the livid brand, was now smooth and unblemished. He stared at it in amazement, tentatively feeling the place where the scar had been raised on his flesh. “It has gone!” he whispered, repeating Faramir’s words. A huge grin spread across his face. He caught hold of Faramir and hugged him tightly before spinning him around in a wild dance of jubilation. Tears ran down their faces as they alternately laughed and cried.
Breathless and exhausted, they finally collapsed together on the grass. ”How can this be?” asked Faramir once he had caught his breath. ”You tried every treatment known to Man or Elf, and nothing removed the scar. How could the wound have healed and when?”
“I do not know,” Aragorn replied simply. ”I tried to forget about it, and over these last days I succeeded.”
Faramir briefly closed his eyes and tried to recall when he had last glimpsed the scar on his King's shoulder. When Faramir had kept his back turned when Aragorn bathed or changed, it had been more than his usual natural reticence and good manners, for every glimpse of the scar had felt like a dagger stabbing his very soul. He had been grateful for the dim light and the fact Aragorn was lying face downwards when he had tended his lords aching back muscles. “I think I last saw the scar on the day the spider bit me,” Faramir said at last.
“I recall my shoulder itching,” said Aragorn. “It stopped paining me the day we swam in the mountain lake, but how the scar itched!”
“Maybe the water had healing properties?” Faramir suggested. “We can soon find out.” He unlaced his shirt and pulled it over his head, then studied his skin. The neat scar left by the arrow wound of a few months before was still there unchanged.
“An Elven mud bath will soon heal that blemish,” said Aragorn. “I believe my healing is a blessing from the One, bestowed on me when I let go of my pain and pride. How foolish I was to be so blind, when I was truly so blessed!” His voice unsteady, he hugged Faramir again. “Come, we had better have our swim if we wish to see our ladies before nightfall.”
Faramir sniffed hard and rubbed his hand across his eyes before removing his breeches and plunging into the refreshingly chill water. Aragorn followed a few minutes later. They splashed around in the water, ducking and diving like exuberant schoolboys, enjoying a respite from the heat of the day.
All too soon it was time to leave the cool water. They dried themselves and changed into clean, dry linens before donning the rest of their clothing
Mounting their horses, they set off towards Minas Tirith with a new lightness in their hearts.
0000
“The King will return in time for the first session of the Council, as will Faramir.” Arwen’s tone brooked no argument. Instead of asking Imrahil to sit down she stood, her eyes daring him to challenge her.
“Forgive me, my lady, but I cannot share your certainty,” protested the Prince. “Everyone could see the King was far from well. Now he has vanished without trace along with Lord Faramir.” Imrahil’s anger was obvious as he spoke his nephew’s name. “You tell me my lady, the King has not gone to Rivendell to seek healing, so where might he be?”
“He has gone to seek a cure, but there is none now in Imladris,” said Arwen. “The One alone can grant Estel peace. I sent Estel forth with Faramir that both might be restored to their former vigour.”
“I would have thought that Elessar would have preferred a more suitable companion than my neph....,er, Lord Faramir could have been found to escort the King,” said Imrahil. “The Steward's loyalty is still far from certain.”
Arwen’s eyes flashed with anger. ”Never was a man truer to my husband than your nephew, Lord Imrahil!” she said. “He saved Estel’s life!”
“He also spoke treason against the King, joined the rebels, and shamefully raised his hand against his liege lord by branding him!”
“Can you not see, Lord Imrahil, that there was only one way for Faramir to have snatched my husband from that nest of traitors?” Arwen demanded angrily. “Had there been a path to his freedom that was both swift and honourable, I am certain you would have taken it, as would many others. But there was no such easy deliverance. Would you prefer that Faramir had defied the traitors and bought himself and your King to a painful death? We should all be grateful that Faramir managed to save not only my beloved husband, but your other nephew's innocent child. I am proud to call Faramir my friend. You should sing his praise, Prince; instead you treat him like Maeglin!”
Imrahil flushed scarlet, stood staring at his boots for a few moments.” I will think on your words, my lady,” he said at last. “But if only the King would return!”
“He will,” said Arwen. “I foresee that the day is not far off.”
Dismissing the Prince of Dol Amroth, Arwen returned to her sitting room where Éowyn balanced Elestelle on her lap. Eldarion was crawling across the rug clutching a toy horse. A bored looking Elbeth was trying without much success to embroider a kerchief, watched by a nursemaid who sat in the corner. The high, large windowed chamber was light and airy in appearance, furnished with fine tapestries and rugs that Arwen had brought with her from Rivendell. A large bowl of pink roses adorned the table, perfuming the room with their fresh sweetness.
“Has Prince Imrahil departed?” asked Éowyn. “If only he did not think so ill of Faramir!” she sighed deeply. “And where is my husband? I thought you said he was making a pilgrimage on the mountain with Aragorn? I agree they needed some time alone together to sort out their differences, but it has been so long. I fear for Faramir; he was far from well when I last beheld him!”
“They will return when they are fully reconciled and beginning to heal,” Arwen said calmly. “Then Imrahil will understand the truth at last.”
“I want to see Strider again,” said Elbeth. “I'll ask him to pass a law banning embroidery!”
Arwen laughed. ”Many ladies would be very sad if he did that.”
“You can put your sewing away now,” said Éowyn. ”It is almost time for the evening meal Go and was your hands before we eat.”
As soon as the little girl had left the room, Arwen wandered over to the window and looked out. Two familiar figures were walking past the fountain. They paused briefly before the White Tree. Arwen could see a marked change in her husband’s demeanour even from this distance, for Aragorn Elessar walked with a renewed spring in his step. Her husband was obviously engaged in lively conversation with Faramir and both men were smiling.
“They have returned!” cried Arwen. Pausing only to tell the nursemaid to watch the children, the two women hastened to greet their husbands.
“Estel!” Heedless of her queenly dignity, Arwen ran to greet her husband.
“Arwen!” Beaming from ear to ear, Aragorn embraced her tightly.
“Éowyn, I never expected that you would be here!” Faramir cried joyfully as he greeted his wife.
“Arwen invited me to stay with her while you were away,” Éowyn explained. ”It is good to see you again, Faramir. You look so well!”
The two couples made their way back inside the royal apartments arm in arm. When Aragorn reached his chambers, he briefly left his wife’s side to speak to Faramir. ”Please join us for the evening meal, mellon nîn, and bring Éowyn and the children,” he said. “Arwen and I would have tell of our travels.”
“Gladly we will,” Faramir smiled.
As they made their way to their rooms, Arwen noticed that her husband walked with his old confidence. There was a lively twinkle in his eye and he smiled greetings to passing servants.
“How is Eldarion?” the King asked.
“Growing by the day,” said Arwen. “He has his back teeth now and had learned several new words. His nanny is just putting him to bed.”
“I can hardly wait to see him,” said Aragorn.
“I will leave you to change for dinner,” said Arwen when they reached the bedroom.
“Wait, I have something to show you,” said the King.
Arwen stared in amazement as her usually reticent husband peeled off his tunic, followed by his shirt. “Look!” he said, “I am healed!”
Joyfully, Arwen studied the unblemished flesh. Her husband’s muscular body had lost its skeletal appearance and filled out his powerful frame once more, while his skin was lightly bronzed from the son. This was the strong man whom she had wedded, fairer than most Elves! She reached out with slender fingers to caress his shoulder where the brand had once been.
Aragorn quivered with delight at the pleasurable sensations her touch evoked. He drew his wife close and kissed her fiercely.
Arwen responded with equal ardour. Her fears that Eldarion would be their only child evaporated. She nuzzled her cheek against Aragorn’s bare chest. “Let us retire early tonight,” she suggested.
“As soon as we have eaten. I need to keep up my strength!” Aragorn replied, a lively gleam in his eye. He reluctantly released his wife before he was tempted to abandon all thought of dinner. “Faramir and I must tell you of our adventures too.
“It gladdens my heart to see you reconciled,” said Arwen.
“We are indeed,” said Aragorn. “All he did, he did for love of me. I am truly blessed to have a friend such as he!”
“You are indeed. You should cherish and nurture such love. Your Steward a treasure beyond price!”
“I know that now. Fool that I was to be so blind! You were wiser by far, vanimelda, and could see what I could not.” Aragorn kissed his wife again before retiring into the bathing chamber.
0000
“Strider!” cried Elbeth when the King and Queen entered the dining room.
“It is good to see you again, Elbeth,” said the King, stooping to embrace the Faramir's young niece. ”I have missed you.”
“Are you all better now, Strider?” asked Elbeth. “Even your shoulder?”
“It is indeed,” smiled the King.
“I told you kissing it better would work, didn’t I, Uncle Faramir? “ Elbeth said triumphantly.
Elbeth was allowed to join the adults for dinner, which was a lively affair as the two men related their adventures. Arwen was charmed by the tale of the hidden lake and delighted with the sprigs of dried niphredil that Aragorn had brought her, while Éowyn and Elbeth both held their breath as Faramir spoke of the giant spider. Both ladies expressed regret that they had not witnessed the mock dual with the grasses while Elbeth wished that she could have joined in the play fighting. The listeners were highly entertained by tales of the villagers and wished that they could have met Faramir and Aragorn’s newfound friends, especially Mistress Tasariel.
000
The next morning, two very contented couples emerged from their chambers to eat a hearty breakfast. Aragorn produced the cheese that Tasariel had given them which both ladies declared to be delicious.
“I have something to show you,” Aragorn told Faramir before the two men commenced their labours for the day. “Come, walk with me as far as the White Tree.”
King and Steward walked side by side, Faramir with a rather puzzled expression.
“Now look up towards the White Tower,” Aragorn ordered.
Faramir did as he was bidden. The Steward could hardly believe his eyes, as there fluttered the banner of the House of Húrin alongside the King's Standard.
“Thank you!” whispered Faramir, blinking away tears. ”But why?”
“Our Houses are bound in true friendship; and I would have all of Gondor know this,” said Aragorn, his eyes shining with paternal love. “We are as one family.”
"It pleased me greatly to pretend that I was your son these past weeks,” said Faramir, his voice choked with emotion. All his life he had longed to see his own father look upon him in the proud and loving way Aragorn beheld him now.
"You are my son, the fact I did not beget you makes you none the less so," said Aragorn, embracing him.
The End
A big thank you to everyone who has faithfully followed this story and especially to my reviewers. I would love to hear from anyone who has been following the story, but has not yet told me what they think.
This story marks the end of a long journey, which began over four years ago. For details of my future plans, please see my LJ, a link is on my profile page.
This story has sadly not been as popular as some of my others, but I admit it is one of my personal favourites.
A very big thank you to Raksha who has contributed a great deal to this story.
I hope to continue “Healing the Healer” very soon.
Wishing all my readers in the USA a very happy holiday on Thursday.
Tuesday, November 25, 2008
Sunday, November 16, 2008
Healing the Healer
The characters are the property of the Tolkien Estate. No profit has been, nor will be made from this story.
In loving memory
With grateful thanks to Raksha and Deandra
Illness is the night-side of life, a more onerous citizenship. Everyone who is born holds dual citizenship, in the kingdom of the well and in the kingdom of the sick. Although we all prefer to use only the good passport, sooner or later each of us is obliged, at least for a spell, to identify ourselves as citizens of that other place. – Susan Sonntag
Aragorn and Arwen lay sleeping peacefully, entwined in each other’s arms. Life was sweet. The kingdom was secure; their friends were all happy and in good health, while their beloved little son delighted them more each day.
A sudden knock on their door disturbed their peaceful slumbers.
“My lord, my lady, Prince Eldarion is unwell!” cried the voice of Eldarion’s nurse. The young prince had been moved to his own chambers recently, as his liking for awakening early had left his parents severely deprived of much needed sleep. His nursemaid slept in the same room with him. She had been given strict orders to come to the King and Queen at once, should Eldarion have need of them.
Aragorn was out of bed in an instant, pulling a robe over his nightshirt and securing the sash around his waist. He was already opening the door, while Arwen was still collecting her wits. Despite her superior Elven senses, long years as a Ranger had made Aragorn quicker to react. “What is wrong with him? Speak!” Aragorn asked somewhat sharply, opening the door to reveal the anxious nurse, clutching a miserable looking Eldarion.
“He feels hot, my lord, and is fretful. I think he has a fever!” the woman replied. ”I am sorry to disturb you, sire.”
“You acted rightly. My concern for my son caused me to speak sharply to you. I apologise.” The King managed to smile faintly at the woman. She dipped her head. Although she had worked in the King’s Household since Eldarion was born, Aragorn’s humility and good manners never ceased to amaze her.
“What ails him, Míriel? Give him to me!” Arwen had joined her husband and reached out to take her child. She cradled him lovingly in her arms.
“He slept as usual after you put him to bed, my lady,” Míriel explained. ”Then he woke up crying a few minutes ago. I picked him up and he felt hot, and did not seem his usual lively self at all.”
Eldarion promptly vomited all over his mother.
“We will care for him now,” said Aragorn. “Will you have warm water brought to our chambers, please?”
“Whatever is wrong with our son?” Arwen's composure faltered as soon as the nursemaid left the chamber. Tears welled up in her eyes.
“Let me look at him while you change your nightgown,” Aragorn suggested, taking the child from her. Eldarion was burning hot to the touch. It was all too apparent that the heir to the House of Telcontar had developed a fever. Aragorn examined him carefully, but could find no cause for it. He could only assume it was a spring chill. As soon as the water arrived, Aragorn steeped athelas in it and bathed his young son.
The royal couple spent the rest of the night trying to ease their fretful child. Aragorn’s healing skills and Arwen’s loving touch soon soothed the young child a little, but he continued feverish and listless throughout the next day, refusing to eat and crying if his parents left his side.
Aragorn cancelled his duties for the day and sent a message to Faramir in Emyn Arnen, asking him to return at once to Minas Tirith. Meanwhile, a distraught Arwen paced the chamber with their son in her arms.
“Try not to worry too much, beloved,” Aragorn advised. “All human children have fevers occasionally. Eldarion has been fortunate so far. I do not think he is seriously ill. He breathes easily and his heartbeat is strong.”
“He is so little, though, Estel; I cannot bear to see him suffering!” Arwen replied. “I would gladly be ill in his stead!”
“I know you would, as would I,” said the King. ”We can only try our best to ease him. If only I knew what was making him unwell!”
“My poor little one, he is shivering now. A moment ago he was so hot!” Arwen fretted.
“Give him to me,” said the King. ”I can keep him warm.” He loosened his shirt and tunic and placed his son under them next to his heart, where he held him until he became over hot again.
By the next morning the mystery of Eldarion’s illness was solved. Aragorn bathed his little son again and found the small body covered in large red blisters. Arwen looked aghast and burst into tears.
“We can rest easier now, my love,” Aragorn soothed her. ”I know what ails Eldarion. He has chickenpox, a common ailment in young mortal children, from which they soon recover. It is rarely serious, just itchy and unpleasant.”
Within a few days Eldarion was almost his usual lively self again. The main task of his devoted parents was to keep him from scratching and away from other children until he ceased to be infectious. Life soon returned to normal within the royal household.
***
Three weeks later, Aragorn awoke in the middle of the night feeling too hot. Deciding it was the spring weather, which as a Northerner, he still found difficult to accustom himself to, he threw off the blankets without disturbing Arwen, and went back to sleep. At daybreak, he arose and washed and dressed as usual. His head ached and the room seemed unbearably stuffy.
“Are you well, beloved? You have hardly touched your breakfast!” Arwen enquired anxiously.
“I am just not very hungry,” Aragorn replied, pushing the food to the side of his plate and wishing he did not feel so nauseated. ”It is just the weather. I wish it were not so warm.”
”Warm?” Arwen asked incredulously. “It is cold today, I think. Eldarion needed an extra blanket last night. Are you certain you are quite well.”
“I am late for the Council Meeting,” Aragorn said abruptly, evading her question. He hurried from the room before she could press the matter further.
Aragorn wondered if the Council Chamber had somehow miraculously moved, as the walk seemed especially long that morning. He felt exhausted by the time he arrived. He quickly sank down in his seat after opening the meeting. He struggled to concentrate on a debate whether or not trade tariffs to Harad should be increased.
Faramir, sitting beside him, looked on in concern when his lord repeatedly mopped his brow and kept closing his eyes. “Are you well, sire?” he whispered, so softly that only Aragorn could hear.
“I am well!” Aragorn bellowed angrily, making the councillors jump.
“My lord?” Faramir laid a placating hand on Aragorn’s arm. Much to his alarm he felt the flesh burning hot beneath the fabric of the King’s tunic.
Before Aragorn could react, the Steward had risen from his chair to address the Council. “The King is indisposed. The meeting is concluded for today. You are dismissed!”
“How dare you!” Aragorn demanded as soon as the others had left.
“I can see you are not well. As your Steward, it is my duty to protect my King, and more importantly, as your friend I care about your well-being,” Faramir said, unperturbed by Aragorn’s wrath. “It is no good trying to deceive me, you ought to be in bed, and I am taking you to your room now!”
Aragorn opened his mouth to argue but found he lacked the strength. He slumped dejectedly in his seat.
“Come, mellon nîn, can you walk?” Faramir said gently.
“I can if you take my arm,” Aragorn replied, conceding defeat.
Even though he leaned heavily on Faramir’s arm, it took the King twice the usual time to walk to the royal apartments. Faramir knew better than to suggest that they summon guards to carry their lord on a litter.
Arwen was alarmed to see her husband back from his meeting so soon and leaning heavily on Faramir’s arm. “You are ill, Estel!” she exclaimed, as together with Faramir, she helped him to the bedchamber. “You have a fever. I will send for a healer at once.”
“No, I forbid it!” Aragorn said sharply. “Am I not a healer trained by your own father? I know more than anyone from the Houses of Healing. I have caught a chill, nothing more. If you mix me some willow bark tea, I will soon recover.”
“I will do as you wish,” said the Queen. “I wish you would permit me to summon Master Aedred from the Houses, though. Your symptoms remind me of Eldarion’s.”
“That is impossible; he had a childhood illness!” the King retorted. “I will be well once I have rested.”
“You should see the healer,” Arwen persisted.
“He would know nothing I do not know already!” Aragorn snapped. “I tell you I just need rest, and the tea I asked you for!”
TBC
The characters are the property of the Tolkien Estate. No profit has been, nor will be made from this story.
In loving memory
With grateful thanks to Raksha and Deandra
Illness is the night-side of life, a more onerous citizenship. Everyone who is born holds dual citizenship, in the kingdom of the well and in the kingdom of the sick. Although we all prefer to use only the good passport, sooner or later each of us is obliged, at least for a spell, to identify ourselves as citizens of that other place. – Susan Sonntag
Aragorn and Arwen lay sleeping peacefully, entwined in each other’s arms. Life was sweet. The kingdom was secure; their friends were all happy and in good health, while their beloved little son delighted them more each day.
A sudden knock on their door disturbed their peaceful slumbers.
“My lord, my lady, Prince Eldarion is unwell!” cried the voice of Eldarion’s nurse. The young prince had been moved to his own chambers recently, as his liking for awakening early had left his parents severely deprived of much needed sleep. His nursemaid slept in the same room with him. She had been given strict orders to come to the King and Queen at once, should Eldarion have need of them.
Aragorn was out of bed in an instant, pulling a robe over his nightshirt and securing the sash around his waist. He was already opening the door, while Arwen was still collecting her wits. Despite her superior Elven senses, long years as a Ranger had made Aragorn quicker to react. “What is wrong with him? Speak!” Aragorn asked somewhat sharply, opening the door to reveal the anxious nurse, clutching a miserable looking Eldarion.
“He feels hot, my lord, and is fretful. I think he has a fever!” the woman replied. ”I am sorry to disturb you, sire.”
“You acted rightly. My concern for my son caused me to speak sharply to you. I apologise.” The King managed to smile faintly at the woman. She dipped her head. Although she had worked in the King’s Household since Eldarion was born, Aragorn’s humility and good manners never ceased to amaze her.
“What ails him, Míriel? Give him to me!” Arwen had joined her husband and reached out to take her child. She cradled him lovingly in her arms.
“He slept as usual after you put him to bed, my lady,” Míriel explained. ”Then he woke up crying a few minutes ago. I picked him up and he felt hot, and did not seem his usual lively self at all.”
Eldarion promptly vomited all over his mother.
“We will care for him now,” said Aragorn. “Will you have warm water brought to our chambers, please?”
“Whatever is wrong with our son?” Arwen's composure faltered as soon as the nursemaid left the chamber. Tears welled up in her eyes.
“Let me look at him while you change your nightgown,” Aragorn suggested, taking the child from her. Eldarion was burning hot to the touch. It was all too apparent that the heir to the House of Telcontar had developed a fever. Aragorn examined him carefully, but could find no cause for it. He could only assume it was a spring chill. As soon as the water arrived, Aragorn steeped athelas in it and bathed his young son.
The royal couple spent the rest of the night trying to ease their fretful child. Aragorn’s healing skills and Arwen’s loving touch soon soothed the young child a little, but he continued feverish and listless throughout the next day, refusing to eat and crying if his parents left his side.
Aragorn cancelled his duties for the day and sent a message to Faramir in Emyn Arnen, asking him to return at once to Minas Tirith. Meanwhile, a distraught Arwen paced the chamber with their son in her arms.
“Try not to worry too much, beloved,” Aragorn advised. “All human children have fevers occasionally. Eldarion has been fortunate so far. I do not think he is seriously ill. He breathes easily and his heartbeat is strong.”
“He is so little, though, Estel; I cannot bear to see him suffering!” Arwen replied. “I would gladly be ill in his stead!”
“I know you would, as would I,” said the King. ”We can only try our best to ease him. If only I knew what was making him unwell!”
“My poor little one, he is shivering now. A moment ago he was so hot!” Arwen fretted.
“Give him to me,” said the King. ”I can keep him warm.” He loosened his shirt and tunic and placed his son under them next to his heart, where he held him until he became over hot again.
By the next morning the mystery of Eldarion’s illness was solved. Aragorn bathed his little son again and found the small body covered in large red blisters. Arwen looked aghast and burst into tears.
“We can rest easier now, my love,” Aragorn soothed her. ”I know what ails Eldarion. He has chickenpox, a common ailment in young mortal children, from which they soon recover. It is rarely serious, just itchy and unpleasant.”
Within a few days Eldarion was almost his usual lively self again. The main task of his devoted parents was to keep him from scratching and away from other children until he ceased to be infectious. Life soon returned to normal within the royal household.
***
Three weeks later, Aragorn awoke in the middle of the night feeling too hot. Deciding it was the spring weather, which as a Northerner, he still found difficult to accustom himself to, he threw off the blankets without disturbing Arwen, and went back to sleep. At daybreak, he arose and washed and dressed as usual. His head ached and the room seemed unbearably stuffy.
“Are you well, beloved? You have hardly touched your breakfast!” Arwen enquired anxiously.
“I am just not very hungry,” Aragorn replied, pushing the food to the side of his plate and wishing he did not feel so nauseated. ”It is just the weather. I wish it were not so warm.”
”Warm?” Arwen asked incredulously. “It is cold today, I think. Eldarion needed an extra blanket last night. Are you certain you are quite well.”
“I am late for the Council Meeting,” Aragorn said abruptly, evading her question. He hurried from the room before she could press the matter further.
Aragorn wondered if the Council Chamber had somehow miraculously moved, as the walk seemed especially long that morning. He felt exhausted by the time he arrived. He quickly sank down in his seat after opening the meeting. He struggled to concentrate on a debate whether or not trade tariffs to Harad should be increased.
Faramir, sitting beside him, looked on in concern when his lord repeatedly mopped his brow and kept closing his eyes. “Are you well, sire?” he whispered, so softly that only Aragorn could hear.
“I am well!” Aragorn bellowed angrily, making the councillors jump.
“My lord?” Faramir laid a placating hand on Aragorn’s arm. Much to his alarm he felt the flesh burning hot beneath the fabric of the King’s tunic.
Before Aragorn could react, the Steward had risen from his chair to address the Council. “The King is indisposed. The meeting is concluded for today. You are dismissed!”
“How dare you!” Aragorn demanded as soon as the others had left.
“I can see you are not well. As your Steward, it is my duty to protect my King, and more importantly, as your friend I care about your well-being,” Faramir said, unperturbed by Aragorn’s wrath. “It is no good trying to deceive me, you ought to be in bed, and I am taking you to your room now!”
Aragorn opened his mouth to argue but found he lacked the strength. He slumped dejectedly in his seat.
“Come, mellon nîn, can you walk?” Faramir said gently.
“I can if you take my arm,” Aragorn replied, conceding defeat.
Even though he leaned heavily on Faramir’s arm, it took the King twice the usual time to walk to the royal apartments. Faramir knew better than to suggest that they summon guards to carry their lord on a litter.
Arwen was alarmed to see her husband back from his meeting so soon and leaning heavily on Faramir’s arm. “You are ill, Estel!” she exclaimed, as together with Faramir, she helped him to the bedchamber. “You have a fever. I will send for a healer at once.”
“No, I forbid it!” Aragorn said sharply. “Am I not a healer trained by your own father? I know more than anyone from the Houses of Healing. I have caught a chill, nothing more. If you mix me some willow bark tea, I will soon recover.”
“I will do as you wish,” said the Queen. “I wish you would permit me to summon Master Aedred from the Houses, though. Your symptoms remind me of Eldarion’s.”
“That is impossible; he had a childhood illness!” the King retorted. “I will be well once I have rested.”
“You should see the healer,” Arwen persisted.
“He would know nothing I do not know already!” Aragorn snapped. “I tell you I just need rest, and the tea I asked you for!”
TBC
Wednesday, October 29, 2008
These characters all belong to the estate of J.R.R. Tolkien. This story was written for pleasure and not for financial gain.
Farewell to barn and stack and tree - A.E. Houseman – A Shropshire lad
With grateful thanks to Raksha
Faramir woke with a start. For a moment he felt confused, wondering what had could have roused him in the middle of the night. The moon had gone behind a cloud, leaving the sky pitch black. All was still; not even the hooting of an owl disturbed the silence.
His stomach-ache had gone, and he was curled up comfortably at Aragorn’s side. He started as a truly dreadful noise assailed his ears. Then he realised, Aragorn was snoring at a truly ear shattering volume. Without thinking, Faramir instinctively dug his elbow in the direction of the King's ribs.
Faramir groaned inwardly. Since his ordeal, Aragorn was afraid of the dark. Just as the villagers had finally realised his lord’s true worth and come to respect him, they would now all be roused from their beds if Aragorn started to cry out. Tasariel would understand, but the others might again view Aragorn with suspicion, or even scorn. The villagers worked hard and did not take kindly to being roused from their beds, especially not after tonight when the wine had flowed so freely. Faramir could only hope his friend had not been dreaming. He was vastly relieved when Aragorn simply grunted in his sleep and shifted away from the assailing elbow.
The Steward wondered if he should move several feet away from Aragorn in case the pitch darkness prompted another of the King’s nightmares, and he ended up with a black eye as a result. However, he was comfortable where he was and reluctant to disturb Aragorn.
Faramir decided to hope for the best and tried settle back to sleep, his thoughts turning to Éowyn and Elestelle. He wondered how they might be faring. Maybe his daughter would have learned how to crawl? He wondered when his little girl would run to greet him saying "Ada", and found himself grinning at the thought. Elestelle appeared to have a quick ear for learning. He wished he could ask his uncle if he remembered at what age he and Boromir had started to walk; but Imrahil had refused all contact with him since Faramir’s seeming treachery.
Faramir tried to banish such sorrowful thoughts from his mind and go back to sleep. They had a long ride ahead on the morrow if they would reach Minas Tirith by nightfall. Briefly Faramir felt a stab of envy. The Queen would be waiting to greet her lord, while he would have to retire to a lonely bed before he could join Éowyn and Elestelle at Emyn Arnen. He hoped he could persuade his wife to stay in Minas Tirith for a while. Faramir’s thoughts started to wander as he drifted again towards sleep.
Suddenly, another loud snore jolted him back to full wakefulness. Faramir sighed in exasperation. Sorely tempted though he was to nudge Aragorn awake, he dreaded how his lord would react in this pitch darkness. Pulling his blanket over his ears, Faramir tried again to sleep. He would have to wait until there was some light before he dared to awaken his friend.
“Faramir?”
He froze in dismay when he heard Aragorn’s voice, fearing the King would start to panic. Yet Aragorn's voice sounded calm, just somewhat bewildered.
“I am here beside you, mellon nîn. You woke yourself up with your snoring!” Faramir stretched out his hand and laid it reassuringly on Aragorn’s shoulder.
“I was dreaming that the people were cheering us. We were not here, though, but in Minas Tirith. Arwen was there and she was so proud of me!”
“A good dream then?” Faramir sighed with relief.
“A very pleasant dream indeed. I long to see my beloved. Yet, I would not have missed these past days for all of Smaug’s treasure! I hope we can do it again in future.”
“I would gladly miss the bite of Shelob's spawn!” Faramir replied wryly.
“I did not mean that!” Aragorn retorted, ”I meant that I hope we can return to being simple Rangers together again when our duties permit. Even sleeping on the ground feels good when you do not have to do it in the winter!” He yawned sleepily and pulled his blanket more closely around him.
“I should like that very much.” The simple words were insufficient to convey Faramir’s delight that this first camping trip with the King would not be the last. He had always dreamed of having a father who who would accept him as himself rather than as Boromir's younger brother, a father with whom he could let down his guard.
Aragorn made no reply. He had fallen asleep again and was starting to snore even more loudly than before.
Faramir struggled to patiently endure the racket, this time folding his blanket double before burying his head beneath it. He idly wondered if dragons snored; and if so, did they make such a noise? Faramir feared that the whole village was likely to be roused by this racket. "Aragorn!” he hissed, ”wake up!”
“What is it?” Aragorn asked sleepily.
“You are snoring again!” Faramir grumbled. “How can I sleep if you make such a noise? I do not want to be too tired to ride home tomorrow!”
“My Rangers never complained!” Aragorn retorted.
“They must have been deaf or had some special Northern Númenorean trait that we poor folk of the South lack!” Faramir replied. "A marvel you did not alert every Orc in the Northern lands to your presence! Unless they all fled in terror from such a cacophony!"
“Arwen never complains either,” Aragorn added smugly.
“Well you can snore all you wish tomorrow night then!” said Faramir. “Lie on your side; then maybe we can both rest!”
Wanting nothing more than to return to sleep, Aragorn did as he was told. He reached for his blanket only to grab Faramir’s in the dark
“You have taken my blanket now!” Faramir complained.
“I am sorry,” Aragorn said contritely,” I could not see. It is pitch dark! He sat up suddenly, realising the implications.
“Yes, I know. I should not have disturbed you,“ Faramir said contritely. His complaints now seemed very petty. He feared his judgement had been somewhat clouded by all the good wine he had consumed earlier.
“I slept in the dark and I had no nightmares!” Aragorn whispered, hardly able to believe it.
“I believe you are healing at last, mellon nîn.” Faramir was grateful that the darkness hid the tears of joy that started to roll down his cheeks. He did not want Aragorn to know that he had often despaired of ever seeing him restored to his old self again. He reached out to hug his friend; only for their noses to bang together in the darkness. They both burst out laughing until they shook with mirth. Hastily they put their hands over their mouths, so as not to wake the villagers.
When their mirth finally subsided they settled to rest again. Just before he drifted into sleep, Faramir noticed the comfortingly familiar scent of athelas and other healing herbs again surrounded Aragorn. From the moment Faramir had first inhaled the healing fragrance of athelas; he had felt secure. All was well in his world once more; Gondor had her King restored to health; he was reconciled with the man he loved as a father, and very soon Faramir would be reunited with his beloved lady and their daughter. Utterly content, he settled against his friend’s shoulder and let himself fall into a deep and dreamless sleep.
The cock’s crow went unheeded the next morning while the sun was already high in the sky before the villagers emerged from their huts, many yawning and complaining of headaches and stomach pains after their over indulgences of the previous night. Tasariel was much in demand and bustled hither and thither dispensing peppermint tea to the children and a mixture of milk thistle and willow bark to the adults.
Breakfast was a fairly subduedaffair with few of the adults having much appetite for the crusty bread and creamy cheese that was served. Aragorn and Faramir made themselves eat, knowing it would be many hours before they reached home.
Tasariel smiled at them approvingly. “It seems I have succeeded in fattening you two up a little!” she said. “Now don’t go and starve yourselves again in the City!”
“I promise you, we will not go hungry, Mistress,” said Aragorn. “Not that the fare in Minas Tirith is as hearty as yours! The farmers should take some of their produce to sell at the City market.”
“I doubt the grand folks there would like our simple fare,” Borlach said doubtfully.
“I assure you, Master Borlach, that this food is fit for the table of the King himself!” Faramir said solemnly.
Tasariel’s dark eyes twinkled. “I will take you at your word, Master Falborn,” she said.
Aragorn stared intently at his plate while struggling to suppress his mirth.
Once the meal was concluded, Aragorn and Faramir gathered their possessions together and prepared to take their leave of Celonhaer. Now that the moment of departure drew close, they realised they were going to miss these simple people.
“We thank you for your hospitality and kindness,” Aragorn told Borlach. “Now, do not forget that if any ills trouble your people, you should send to Minas Tirith for help. I will see that your message reaches the King’s ear. You have my promise.”
“I will indeed, masters,” said Borlach. “Remember, we now consider you as part of Celonhaer. You will always be welcome here and we hope you will return.”
“I fear our tasks in the City take much of our time, Master Borlach,” said Aragorn. ”I give you my word, though, that when our duties permit we will visit you again one day.”
“We will never forget you,” said Hareth. She was dabbing her eyes, as was her daughter. Gilrath stood beside them. There was no sign of her son Thoron. Faramir wondered whether the youth was suffering the effects of over indulgence or just rude as usual. Aragorn and Faramir kissed the ladies on the brow in farewell.
“It was a lucky day when you came to our village,” said Finrod, coming forward to shake Aragorn’s hand. “I wish you and your son could stay longer with us.”
“I wish we could stay too, but our wives await us in the City,” Aragorn told him.
“Hmm,” said Beleg, grudgingly. ”I suppose you just about made up for all the damage you caused!”
“They repaid us a hundredfold!” Tasariel interrupted. She thrust a parchment into Aragorn’s hand. “Here are the recipes for the salves you requested of me. I have put a little something for you to take home with you in your packs.”
Impulsively, Aragorn embraced the Healer, and Faramir did likewise. She had become dear to them over the past few days.
“I promise we will return one day,” said Aragorn rather gruffly. ”Farewell!”
“May the Valar bless your journey!” said Tasariel.
Almost the entire village watched as Aragorn and Faramir mounted their horses and rode away. Several times they looked back and waved.
000
Aragorn and Faramir rode steadily until the sun was directly overhead. They halted for a brief respite and to rest the horses. Looking in their packs, they found Tasariel had provided luncheon for them both along with two enormous cheeses and threepots of her salves.
“I am looking forward to sharing this cheese with Arwen,” said Aragorn. ”It is as good as anything I ate at Rivendell!”
“Éowyn will love the cheese too,” said Faramir. ”She is forever saying the cheeses in Minas Tirith compare poorly with those of Edoras.”
“I hope you can persuade your lady to visit the city,” said Aragorn. “I know you will be eager to ride to Emyn Arnen to be reunited with her, but I should like it very much if we could all spend some time together. I should like to see Elbeth again too.”
“Elbeth misses her ‘Strider’ very much,” said Faramir. ”She used to ask about you almost every day.”
Their lunch finished, the two friends remounted their horses and rode on. This day followed uncomfortably warm after the sunlit coolness of yesterday; and the sun blazed down upon them relentlessly. Even though they were following the course of the river, it became uncomfortably hot. Both men kept pausing to wipe their sweating brows and cast longing looks at the water. As soon as they reached a secluded spot, Aragorn reined in Roheryn. ”Shall we have a quick swim?” he suggested to Faramir.
“There is nothing I should like better!” said the Steward, dismounting from Zachus. He walked stiffly once his feet reached the ground.
“Does your ankle pain you, ion nîn?” enquired Aragorn.
“No, but it is swollen a little in the heat, I think,” said the Steward, rummaging in their packs for towels and clean linens. “I must have danced on it too much last night.” He flopped down on the bank and started to unlace his boots.
“The cool water will do it good,” said Aragorn, idly observing a family of ducks as they swam past. Unlacing his shirt, he drew it over his head and tossed it to one side. . “Come on!” he called to Faramir, turning to face him. “Hurry up and undress; the water will refresh us.”
Faramir pulled off his socks and tossed them and his boots to one side. He turned towards Aragorn to answer him, then leapt to his feet, staring at him in amazement as if transfixed.
“What is the matter?” Aragorn exclaimed, “Are you well, ion nîn?”
TBC
Farewell to barn and stack and tree - A.E. Houseman – A Shropshire lad
With grateful thanks to Raksha
Faramir woke with a start. For a moment he felt confused, wondering what had could have roused him in the middle of the night. The moon had gone behind a cloud, leaving the sky pitch black. All was still; not even the hooting of an owl disturbed the silence.
His stomach-ache had gone, and he was curled up comfortably at Aragorn’s side. He started as a truly dreadful noise assailed his ears. Then he realised, Aragorn was snoring at a truly ear shattering volume. Without thinking, Faramir instinctively dug his elbow in the direction of the King's ribs.
Faramir groaned inwardly. Since his ordeal, Aragorn was afraid of the dark. Just as the villagers had finally realised his lord’s true worth and come to respect him, they would now all be roused from their beds if Aragorn started to cry out. Tasariel would understand, but the others might again view Aragorn with suspicion, or even scorn. The villagers worked hard and did not take kindly to being roused from their beds, especially not after tonight when the wine had flowed so freely. Faramir could only hope his friend had not been dreaming. He was vastly relieved when Aragorn simply grunted in his sleep and shifted away from the assailing elbow.
The Steward wondered if he should move several feet away from Aragorn in case the pitch darkness prompted another of the King’s nightmares, and he ended up with a black eye as a result. However, he was comfortable where he was and reluctant to disturb Aragorn.
Faramir decided to hope for the best and tried settle back to sleep, his thoughts turning to Éowyn and Elestelle. He wondered how they might be faring. Maybe his daughter would have learned how to crawl? He wondered when his little girl would run to greet him saying "Ada", and found himself grinning at the thought. Elestelle appeared to have a quick ear for learning. He wished he could ask his uncle if he remembered at what age he and Boromir had started to walk; but Imrahil had refused all contact with him since Faramir’s seeming treachery.
Faramir tried to banish such sorrowful thoughts from his mind and go back to sleep. They had a long ride ahead on the morrow if they would reach Minas Tirith by nightfall. Briefly Faramir felt a stab of envy. The Queen would be waiting to greet her lord, while he would have to retire to a lonely bed before he could join Éowyn and Elestelle at Emyn Arnen. He hoped he could persuade his wife to stay in Minas Tirith for a while. Faramir’s thoughts started to wander as he drifted again towards sleep.
Suddenly, another loud snore jolted him back to full wakefulness. Faramir sighed in exasperation. Sorely tempted though he was to nudge Aragorn awake, he dreaded how his lord would react in this pitch darkness. Pulling his blanket over his ears, Faramir tried again to sleep. He would have to wait until there was some light before he dared to awaken his friend.
“Faramir?”
He froze in dismay when he heard Aragorn’s voice, fearing the King would start to panic. Yet Aragorn's voice sounded calm, just somewhat bewildered.
“I am here beside you, mellon nîn. You woke yourself up with your snoring!” Faramir stretched out his hand and laid it reassuringly on Aragorn’s shoulder.
“I was dreaming that the people were cheering us. We were not here, though, but in Minas Tirith. Arwen was there and she was so proud of me!”
“A good dream then?” Faramir sighed with relief.
“A very pleasant dream indeed. I long to see my beloved. Yet, I would not have missed these past days for all of Smaug’s treasure! I hope we can do it again in future.”
“I would gladly miss the bite of Shelob's spawn!” Faramir replied wryly.
“I did not mean that!” Aragorn retorted, ”I meant that I hope we can return to being simple Rangers together again when our duties permit. Even sleeping on the ground feels good when you do not have to do it in the winter!” He yawned sleepily and pulled his blanket more closely around him.
“I should like that very much.” The simple words were insufficient to convey Faramir’s delight that this first camping trip with the King would not be the last. He had always dreamed of having a father who who would accept him as himself rather than as Boromir's younger brother, a father with whom he could let down his guard.
Aragorn made no reply. He had fallen asleep again and was starting to snore even more loudly than before.
Faramir struggled to patiently endure the racket, this time folding his blanket double before burying his head beneath it. He idly wondered if dragons snored; and if so, did they make such a noise? Faramir feared that the whole village was likely to be roused by this racket. "Aragorn!” he hissed, ”wake up!”
“What is it?” Aragorn asked sleepily.
“You are snoring again!” Faramir grumbled. “How can I sleep if you make such a noise? I do not want to be too tired to ride home tomorrow!”
“My Rangers never complained!” Aragorn retorted.
“They must have been deaf or had some special Northern Númenorean trait that we poor folk of the South lack!” Faramir replied. "A marvel you did not alert every Orc in the Northern lands to your presence! Unless they all fled in terror from such a cacophony!"
“Arwen never complains either,” Aragorn added smugly.
“Well you can snore all you wish tomorrow night then!” said Faramir. “Lie on your side; then maybe we can both rest!”
Wanting nothing more than to return to sleep, Aragorn did as he was told. He reached for his blanket only to grab Faramir’s in the dark
“You have taken my blanket now!” Faramir complained.
“I am sorry,” Aragorn said contritely,” I could not see. It is pitch dark! He sat up suddenly, realising the implications.
“Yes, I know. I should not have disturbed you,“ Faramir said contritely. His complaints now seemed very petty. He feared his judgement had been somewhat clouded by all the good wine he had consumed earlier.
“I slept in the dark and I had no nightmares!” Aragorn whispered, hardly able to believe it.
“I believe you are healing at last, mellon nîn.” Faramir was grateful that the darkness hid the tears of joy that started to roll down his cheeks. He did not want Aragorn to know that he had often despaired of ever seeing him restored to his old self again. He reached out to hug his friend; only for their noses to bang together in the darkness. They both burst out laughing until they shook with mirth. Hastily they put their hands over their mouths, so as not to wake the villagers.
When their mirth finally subsided they settled to rest again. Just before he drifted into sleep, Faramir noticed the comfortingly familiar scent of athelas and other healing herbs again surrounded Aragorn. From the moment Faramir had first inhaled the healing fragrance of athelas; he had felt secure. All was well in his world once more; Gondor had her King restored to health; he was reconciled with the man he loved as a father, and very soon Faramir would be reunited with his beloved lady and their daughter. Utterly content, he settled against his friend’s shoulder and let himself fall into a deep and dreamless sleep.
The cock’s crow went unheeded the next morning while the sun was already high in the sky before the villagers emerged from their huts, many yawning and complaining of headaches and stomach pains after their over indulgences of the previous night. Tasariel was much in demand and bustled hither and thither dispensing peppermint tea to the children and a mixture of milk thistle and willow bark to the adults.
Breakfast was a fairly subduedaffair with few of the adults having much appetite for the crusty bread and creamy cheese that was served. Aragorn and Faramir made themselves eat, knowing it would be many hours before they reached home.
Tasariel smiled at them approvingly. “It seems I have succeeded in fattening you two up a little!” she said. “Now don’t go and starve yourselves again in the City!”
“I promise you, we will not go hungry, Mistress,” said Aragorn. “Not that the fare in Minas Tirith is as hearty as yours! The farmers should take some of their produce to sell at the City market.”
“I doubt the grand folks there would like our simple fare,” Borlach said doubtfully.
“I assure you, Master Borlach, that this food is fit for the table of the King himself!” Faramir said solemnly.
Tasariel’s dark eyes twinkled. “I will take you at your word, Master Falborn,” she said.
Aragorn stared intently at his plate while struggling to suppress his mirth.
Once the meal was concluded, Aragorn and Faramir gathered their possessions together and prepared to take their leave of Celonhaer. Now that the moment of departure drew close, they realised they were going to miss these simple people.
“We thank you for your hospitality and kindness,” Aragorn told Borlach. “Now, do not forget that if any ills trouble your people, you should send to Minas Tirith for help. I will see that your message reaches the King’s ear. You have my promise.”
“I will indeed, masters,” said Borlach. “Remember, we now consider you as part of Celonhaer. You will always be welcome here and we hope you will return.”
“I fear our tasks in the City take much of our time, Master Borlach,” said Aragorn. ”I give you my word, though, that when our duties permit we will visit you again one day.”
“We will never forget you,” said Hareth. She was dabbing her eyes, as was her daughter. Gilrath stood beside them. There was no sign of her son Thoron. Faramir wondered whether the youth was suffering the effects of over indulgence or just rude as usual. Aragorn and Faramir kissed the ladies on the brow in farewell.
“It was a lucky day when you came to our village,” said Finrod, coming forward to shake Aragorn’s hand. “I wish you and your son could stay longer with us.”
“I wish we could stay too, but our wives await us in the City,” Aragorn told him.
“Hmm,” said Beleg, grudgingly. ”I suppose you just about made up for all the damage you caused!”
“They repaid us a hundredfold!” Tasariel interrupted. She thrust a parchment into Aragorn’s hand. “Here are the recipes for the salves you requested of me. I have put a little something for you to take home with you in your packs.”
Impulsively, Aragorn embraced the Healer, and Faramir did likewise. She had become dear to them over the past few days.
“I promise we will return one day,” said Aragorn rather gruffly. ”Farewell!”
“May the Valar bless your journey!” said Tasariel.
Almost the entire village watched as Aragorn and Faramir mounted their horses and rode away. Several times they looked back and waved.
000
Aragorn and Faramir rode steadily until the sun was directly overhead. They halted for a brief respite and to rest the horses. Looking in their packs, they found Tasariel had provided luncheon for them both along with two enormous cheeses and threepots of her salves.
“I am looking forward to sharing this cheese with Arwen,” said Aragorn. ”It is as good as anything I ate at Rivendell!”
“Éowyn will love the cheese too,” said Faramir. ”She is forever saying the cheeses in Minas Tirith compare poorly with those of Edoras.”
“I hope you can persuade your lady to visit the city,” said Aragorn. “I know you will be eager to ride to Emyn Arnen to be reunited with her, but I should like it very much if we could all spend some time together. I should like to see Elbeth again too.”
“Elbeth misses her ‘Strider’ very much,” said Faramir. ”She used to ask about you almost every day.”
Their lunch finished, the two friends remounted their horses and rode on. This day followed uncomfortably warm after the sunlit coolness of yesterday; and the sun blazed down upon them relentlessly. Even though they were following the course of the river, it became uncomfortably hot. Both men kept pausing to wipe their sweating brows and cast longing looks at the water. As soon as they reached a secluded spot, Aragorn reined in Roheryn. ”Shall we have a quick swim?” he suggested to Faramir.
“There is nothing I should like better!” said the Steward, dismounting from Zachus. He walked stiffly once his feet reached the ground.
“Does your ankle pain you, ion nîn?” enquired Aragorn.
“No, but it is swollen a little in the heat, I think,” said the Steward, rummaging in their packs for towels and clean linens. “I must have danced on it too much last night.” He flopped down on the bank and started to unlace his boots.
“The cool water will do it good,” said Aragorn, idly observing a family of ducks as they swam past. Unlacing his shirt, he drew it over his head and tossed it to one side. . “Come on!” he called to Faramir, turning to face him. “Hurry up and undress; the water will refresh us.”
Faramir pulled off his socks and tossed them and his boots to one side. He turned towards Aragorn to answer him, then leapt to his feet, staring at him in amazement as if transfixed.
“What is the matter?” Aragorn exclaimed, “Are you well, ion nîn?”
TBC
Saturday, September 27, 2008
The Storm
These characters all belong to the estate of J.R.R. Tolkien. This story was written for pleasure and not for financial gain.
O my soul’s joy,
If after every tempest come such calms,
May the winds blow till they have wakened death!
And let the labouring bark climb hills of seas
Olympus-high, and duck again as low
As hell’s from heaven! - William Shakespeare (1564–1616), British dramatist, poet. Othello, in Othello, act 2, sc. 1, l. 185-9.
With thanks to Raksha and Deandra
Aragorn paced restlessly across the chamber, oblivious to the fine tapestries and furniture that adorned it. The room felt oppressively stuffy after a day of humid heat.
A summer storm now raged outside in the gathering dusk, the wind and rain beating fiercely against the windows. Lightening flashed against the darkening sky, while overhead the thunder roared like an angry dragon. How many times had he craved shelter when the elements raged outside? How often had he envied the Bree folk safe and dry in their snug houses? He had lost count long ago. Now he lived in sumptuous surroundings, well protected from the wind and rain. Yet, he found he missed them! Somehow, he felt less than fully alive, sheltered as he now was from nature’s fury.
“You remind me of a wild horse, chomping at the bit,” said Arwen, looking up from her embroidery. ”Go and get some fresh air, ere you wear a hole in the carpet!”
“My guards would never let me!” Aragorn said glumly.
“What became of the Ranger I married?” asked the Queen. ”You spent many a year evading being seen, if you so chose. It should cause you little difficulty in slipping past the guards unnoticed!”
“Your words are wise, vanimelda,” said Aragorn, kissing her tenderly. Snatching up his cloak, and pulling the hood closely around his face, he slipped through the maze of corridors, skilfully dodging his guards. He made his way outside, silent and stealthy as a cat.
The King walked briskly until he came to a secluded corner of the Citadel gardens. The thunder and lightening had ceased now, leaving in its wake heavy, drenching rain and a refreshing stiff breeze.
Aragorn cast aside his cloak and lifted his face towards the heavens, rejoicing in the feel of the cool water as it ran down his face. His hair was soon drenched and plastered to his face, but he cared not.
Soon his clothing was soaked. Cold rivulets of rainwater trickled down his neck. Impulsively, he peeled off his tunic and shirt, allowing the rain to run freely down his bare chest and back. He closed his eyes. The breeze gusted fiercely against his bare skin. It seemed almost to caress him, making him feel invigorated and truly alive. He felt as if he could dance with the sheer ecstasy of feeling as one with nature; a child of wind, and storm and sky
Suddenly, his keen senses heard a twig cracking, as if trodden underfoot. Startled, he opened his eyes and made to snatch up his discarded clothing. It would not do at all for a King to be caught like this, half naked and dripping. The servants and nobility would think their new lord a madman!
“Estel! I could not resist joining you.”
It was Arwen. She came barefoot, dropping her cloak at her feet to reveal a simple linen gown beneath.
“Beloved, you surprised me!”
Arwen laughed, a sweet musical tone that always made her husband’s heart soar. ”A Peredhil can be as stealthy as a Ranger, and even closer to nature,” she said. ”At Imladris I would dance beneath the waterfall and revel in the feel of the spray. Come, dance with me!” She pulled him close, her breath warm against his skin.
Aragorn kicked off his boots and they laughingly began to dance across the grass, oblivious of the downpour. Slowly the rain ceased. The moon emerged from behind the scudding clouds, bathing the dancers in a silver glow.
Aragorn studied his wife’s lovely features. She looked fairer than ever in the moonlight, her hair dishevelled and damp, while her gown clung becomingly to her graceful figure.
Suddenly they stopped dancing. Breathlessly, they stood gazing at each other. Aragorn pulled his wife close and kissed her. She returned the kiss, her slender fingers caressing his skin, her warmth and nearness setting his body ablaze. The tempest in the heavens had abated, but nature had kindled another storm within their hearts, one of a very different kind, but no less fierce in its passion.
A/N This was the sole entry for a contest with the theme of “Nature” as the challenge.
The events take place a few weeks after Aragorn and Arwen’s marriage.
I have posted the first chapter of a new angst laden story “Dies Irae” on this site.
These characters all belong to the estate of J.R.R. Tolkien. This story was written for pleasure and not for financial gain.
O my soul’s joy,
If after every tempest come such calms,
May the winds blow till they have wakened death!
And let the labouring bark climb hills of seas
Olympus-high, and duck again as low
As hell’s from heaven! - William Shakespeare (1564–1616), British dramatist, poet. Othello, in Othello, act 2, sc. 1, l. 185-9.
With thanks to Raksha and Deandra
Aragorn paced restlessly across the chamber, oblivious to the fine tapestries and furniture that adorned it. The room felt oppressively stuffy after a day of humid heat.
A summer storm now raged outside in the gathering dusk, the wind and rain beating fiercely against the windows. Lightening flashed against the darkening sky, while overhead the thunder roared like an angry dragon. How many times had he craved shelter when the elements raged outside? How often had he envied the Bree folk safe and dry in their snug houses? He had lost count long ago. Now he lived in sumptuous surroundings, well protected from the wind and rain. Yet, he found he missed them! Somehow, he felt less than fully alive, sheltered as he now was from nature’s fury.
“You remind me of a wild horse, chomping at the bit,” said Arwen, looking up from her embroidery. ”Go and get some fresh air, ere you wear a hole in the carpet!”
“My guards would never let me!” Aragorn said glumly.
“What became of the Ranger I married?” asked the Queen. ”You spent many a year evading being seen, if you so chose. It should cause you little difficulty in slipping past the guards unnoticed!”
“Your words are wise, vanimelda,” said Aragorn, kissing her tenderly. Snatching up his cloak, and pulling the hood closely around his face, he slipped through the maze of corridors, skilfully dodging his guards. He made his way outside, silent and stealthy as a cat.
The King walked briskly until he came to a secluded corner of the Citadel gardens. The thunder and lightening had ceased now, leaving in its wake heavy, drenching rain and a refreshing stiff breeze.
Aragorn cast aside his cloak and lifted his face towards the heavens, rejoicing in the feel of the cool water as it ran down his face. His hair was soon drenched and plastered to his face, but he cared not.
Soon his clothing was soaked. Cold rivulets of rainwater trickled down his neck. Impulsively, he peeled off his tunic and shirt, allowing the rain to run freely down his bare chest and back. He closed his eyes. The breeze gusted fiercely against his bare skin. It seemed almost to caress him, making him feel invigorated and truly alive. He felt as if he could dance with the sheer ecstasy of feeling as one with nature; a child of wind, and storm and sky
Suddenly, his keen senses heard a twig cracking, as if trodden underfoot. Startled, he opened his eyes and made to snatch up his discarded clothing. It would not do at all for a King to be caught like this, half naked and dripping. The servants and nobility would think their new lord a madman!
“Estel! I could not resist joining you.”
It was Arwen. She came barefoot, dropping her cloak at her feet to reveal a simple linen gown beneath.
“Beloved, you surprised me!”
Arwen laughed, a sweet musical tone that always made her husband’s heart soar. ”A Peredhil can be as stealthy as a Ranger, and even closer to nature,” she said. ”At Imladris I would dance beneath the waterfall and revel in the feel of the spray. Come, dance with me!” She pulled him close, her breath warm against his skin.
Aragorn kicked off his boots and they laughingly began to dance across the grass, oblivious of the downpour. Slowly the rain ceased. The moon emerged from behind the scudding clouds, bathing the dancers in a silver glow.
Aragorn studied his wife’s lovely features. She looked fairer than ever in the moonlight, her hair dishevelled and damp, while her gown clung becomingly to her graceful figure.
Suddenly they stopped dancing. Breathlessly, they stood gazing at each other. Aragorn pulled his wife close and kissed her. She returned the kiss, her slender fingers caressing his skin, her warmth and nearness setting his body ablaze. The tempest in the heavens had abated, but nature had kindled another storm within their hearts, one of a very different kind, but no less fierce in its passion.
A/N This was the sole entry for a contest with the theme of “Nature” as the challenge.
The events take place a few weeks after Aragorn and Arwen’s marriage.
I have posted the first chapter of a new angst laden story “Dies Irae” on this site.
Tuesday, September 23, 2008
Dies iræ! (Day of wrath)
The characters are the property of the Tolkien Estate. No profit has been, nor will be made from this story.
With grateful thanks to Raksha and Deandra
Dies iræ! dies illa
Solvet sæclum in favilla
Teste David cum Sibylla!
(Day of wrath! O day of mourning!
See fulfilled the prophets' warning,
Heaven and earth in ashes burning!) - Thomas of Celano 13th Century Latin hymn used in the Requiem Mass
Trailed discretely by two Guards, Aragorn walked briskly through the market place. He paused to acknowledge with a nod or a smile the many greetings called out to him. He stopped only when he reached a stall which sold jewellery made from rough-cut semi precious stones. Since he had delighted his Queen with a simple amethyst necklace some time ago, he often bought her similar trinkets when he visited the market.
“Do you have any necklaces of lapis lazuli?” Aragorn asked the trader.
“Indeed, my lord, I do! I have bracelets and necklaces and rings of the very finest quality, imported from Khand. They arrived only yesterday. Or would my lord perhaps like to see my new rose quartz collection, which I just unpacked this morning? Rose quartz would surely suit the Queen’s colouring, like the pink clouds of sunset around the evening star.”
The two Guards, Meneldil and Cirion, exchanged bored glances as the trader prattled on about the perfection of his baubles. Cirion, new to his post, yawned. Both were unwed and deemed their lord's habit of personally searching out gifts for his lady to be a task beneath the dignity of a king.
As they watched their King talk with the merchant, they noticed a cloaked woman who walked with odd, stumbling steps, shuffle up to the stall. Bent beneath a burden of years, grey tresses straggling from out the hood of her cloak, the woman seemed fragile as she stood near the tall, strong form of King Elessar. Her wrinkled hands carefully fingered a pearl necklace. Meneldil wondered idly if the old lady had a granddaughter, for she was surely too old to want to wear one herself. He focussed his attention on a young lad who was weaving swiftly and purposefully through the stalls, and would soon pass close to the King. Was the boy a messenger, a cutpurse, or simply a lad on an errand for his mother?
As Aragorn handed over some coins to the merchant, the cloaked woman staggered, and gasped as if in distress. With the instinct of a trained healer, Aragorn reached out to help her. The woman grasped his arm with one hand, reached inside her cloak with the other, and with sudden, terrible speed, drove a dagger into Aragorn's shoulder.
The King stumbled and cried out while the youth and other passers-by screamed in horror. More Guards rushed to the scene. Cursing, Cirion and Meneldil pulled the assassin off of their lord and hastily subdued her.
Aragorn was the first to collect himself. “Stay calm!” he cried. He slowly pulled the dagger from his shoulder. A merchant selling cloth at the next stall thrust a piece of linen into Aragorn’s hands. The King briskly staunched the wound with it. ”The wound is but slight,” he reassured the bystanders.
The woman gave an evil laugh grin. The Guards tore the hood away from her face revealing the swarthy skin and tattooed cheeks of a native of Far Harad. ”You are doomed to die, Elessar!” she spat in heavily accented Westron. “As you killed my husband, so I have killed you. My blade is coated with a deadly poison, which will slay you before twenty-four hours have passed!”
“You will pay dearly for this!” cried Meneldil, his young face fierce with rage.
The woman laughed maliciously. “There is nothing you can do to me, Elessar, for I have even less time left than you!” She raised her arm, so that her sleeve fell back to reveal a small cut on her arm. “A few hours ago, I cut myself with this poisoned blade that I might go to join my husband in the underworld. Then I thought, why not take you with me on my long journey as an offering to the spirits of the dead?”
“Take her to the Houses of Healing!” Aragorn commanded. ”See if the Healers can learn what venom she has used. Her dagger should yield traces of it.”
The Guards tried to march the woman off, but she seemed hardly able to place one foot in front of the other. ”See!” she cried in hideous joy, “Already the poison consumes me. Soon it will be your turn, Elessar!”
“Shall we escort you to the Houses as well, my lord?” Cirion enquired of Aragorn.
The King shook his head. ”If I am to die, I prefer to do so in my own bed!” he said grimly. ”Send a messenger to Lord Faramir in Ithilien on the swiftest horse that can be found and bid him come to me at once,” he ordered. “And summon the Warden of the Houses of Healing to my quarters once he has examined the woman.”
Refusing all offers of help from the Guards and concerned passers by, Aragorn made his way back to his apartments. His mind raced in turmoil. Was the woman telling the truth or was she simply mad? There had been a Southron incursion on the marches of Ithilien a few weeks past. Aragorn and Faramir had fought and killed those who had refused to surrender. He had slain their aging leader with his own hand. Those they had taken prisoner claimed their fallen leader was a venerable warlord. Could the slain Southron captain have been the woman’s husband?
Aragorn subdued a tremble. Could he truly be doomed to die within twenty-four hours? He had so much to live for! What of Arwen and his son? He did not want to leave them. And what of Faramir, his best friend and Steward? How could he leave those he loved so soon? Then what of Gondor and Arnor? Eldarion was scarcely more than a baby. What would happen to his kingdoms if he died now? Apart from the pain in his shoulder, Aragorn felt perfectly well. Surely his doom was not come so soon!
Aragorn paused briefly before the White Tree, wondering if he looked upon its beauty for the last time. The Tree of the Kings was still a slender sapling. He had hoped to watch it grow through the years, to see the Tree rise high and strong, its still fragile branches thicken and stretch out with new leaves over the Citadel where Isildur had once walked. He had hoped by the time he passed the Silver Crown to Eldarion that the roots would have grown deep and the trunk thick and sturdy.
Arwen hastened out to meet him at the entrance to his private apartments. Her beautiful face was pale and drawn. ”Estel, I have heard grave tidings!” she cried. ”Tell me it is not true that you have received a deadly wound?”
Aragorn clasped her tightly in his arms. ”I do not know, my love,” he said sadly. ”I need to examine the injury.” He made his way to his private chambers, closely followed by Arwen. Gathering his healing supplies, he spread them on the bed, then removed his makeshift bandage and pulled off his cloak, tunic and shirt.
The wound was small, less than an inch in length and scarcely bleeding. Hardly alarming to look upon, but already the wound felt hot, almost tingling, to Aragorn’s careful touch. The edges of the cut were a curious greenish shade. “Alas!” cried Aragorn. ”It is indeed poisoned, and not the usual venom favoured by the Haradrim, which is easy enough to treat with the right knowledge. I have never before come across this poison before!”
"It is such a tiny cut to be so deadly, Estel!" Arwen exclaimed softly, carefully studying the wound. The horror in her eyes chilled Aragorn. “Could my father's books hold the answers you seek?” she asked with sudden hope. “If only my brothers were here!”
“Your father would have shared the knowledge with me, had he possessed it,” Aragorn said sadly. ”He taught me all that he knew of the poisons used by the Dark Lord and his minions. I must proceed with the knowledge I already have, and the implements and medicines available here. Now I have need of hot water.”
While Arwen sought a servant, Aragorn plunged a knife into the fire that burned in the grate and waited for the blade to grow white hot. Retrieving the knife, he gritted his teeth and sliced into his shoulder, opening the existing wound wider and forcing it to bleed.
“Whatever are you doing?” Arwen asked in horror, returning with the water and hearing his stifled groans.
“Trying to flush out some of the poison,” he told her. ”‘Tis but a slim chance it will help, but any chance is better than none!” He took two athelas leaves from a pouch in his healing supplies, breathed on them and cast them into the hot water. “Will you bandage my shoulder, please?” he asked Arwen, pressing the leaves into the wound. “Athelas is the most potent weapon I know of against deadly venoms. Even as he spoke, Aragorn feared it was already too late. The tips of his fingers were beginning to feel numb, which he recalled Elrond once warning him to be aware of as an early symptom of poisoning. He stifled his rising feelings of panic and tried to calmly recall his Healer’s training. How else might he slow the deadly venom? Fluids might help flush some of it from his body. He found he craved tea, such as the Hobbits drank. He asked Arwen to send a servant to bring it. While they waited, Aragorn donned a loose robe, struggling to tie the sash around his waist.
Arwen noticed how he was fumbling, and knew why. The anguish in her eyes almost caused his heart to break there and then.
Aragorn could do nothing await Master Tarostar, Warden of the Houses of Healing and what tidings he might bring. He could only hope that Faramir would arrive while he was still conscious. There was so much he needed to tell his friend and Steward in the little time he had left. He could only wait and conserve his strength as best he could. Arwen sat beside him on the vast bed frantically searching through her father’s books for any clue how she could save her husband. There was none.
An hour or so later, Tarostar arrived. ”The woman refused to speak, not even to give her name,” he informed the King grimly. ”She is very near death now. We have dosed her with the antidote to every known poison, but alas, nothing is having any effect.”
Arwen buried her face in her hands.
“Keep on observing her,” Aragorn said, somehow maintaining a calm composure as his last hopes faded. ”Perhaps you will yet learn something of use.”
“Yes, my lord,” said the Warden, trying to mask his own emotions. “Is there any other assistance I may offer?”
“Not yet,” said Aragorn. ”I would be alone with my wife now until Lord Faramir arrives.”
As soon as the man left, Aragorn slumped back against the pillows. His hands now tingled up to the wrists and his fingers felt stiff and clumsy. “To think that I should die like this!” he cried in fury. “I fought many battles, knowing I might easily fall in combat, or that I might be killed by agents of the Dark Lord while I was in hiding. Now, just when I felt I could finally enjoy the fruits of my labours, I am doomed to fall at the hands of a madwoman! Why, why?”
Arwen could only shake her head, having no answer or comfort to offer him.
The characters are the property of the Tolkien Estate. No profit has been, nor will be made from this story.
With grateful thanks to Raksha and Deandra
Dies iræ! dies illa
Solvet sæclum in favilla
Teste David cum Sibylla!
(Day of wrath! O day of mourning!
See fulfilled the prophets' warning,
Heaven and earth in ashes burning!) - Thomas of Celano 13th Century Latin hymn used in the Requiem Mass
Trailed discretely by two Guards, Aragorn walked briskly through the market place. He paused to acknowledge with a nod or a smile the many greetings called out to him. He stopped only when he reached a stall which sold jewellery made from rough-cut semi precious stones. Since he had delighted his Queen with a simple amethyst necklace some time ago, he often bought her similar trinkets when he visited the market.
“Do you have any necklaces of lapis lazuli?” Aragorn asked the trader.
“Indeed, my lord, I do! I have bracelets and necklaces and rings of the very finest quality, imported from Khand. They arrived only yesterday. Or would my lord perhaps like to see my new rose quartz collection, which I just unpacked this morning? Rose quartz would surely suit the Queen’s colouring, like the pink clouds of sunset around the evening star.”
The two Guards, Meneldil and Cirion, exchanged bored glances as the trader prattled on about the perfection of his baubles. Cirion, new to his post, yawned. Both were unwed and deemed their lord's habit of personally searching out gifts for his lady to be a task beneath the dignity of a king.
As they watched their King talk with the merchant, they noticed a cloaked woman who walked with odd, stumbling steps, shuffle up to the stall. Bent beneath a burden of years, grey tresses straggling from out the hood of her cloak, the woman seemed fragile as she stood near the tall, strong form of King Elessar. Her wrinkled hands carefully fingered a pearl necklace. Meneldil wondered idly if the old lady had a granddaughter, for she was surely too old to want to wear one herself. He focussed his attention on a young lad who was weaving swiftly and purposefully through the stalls, and would soon pass close to the King. Was the boy a messenger, a cutpurse, or simply a lad on an errand for his mother?
As Aragorn handed over some coins to the merchant, the cloaked woman staggered, and gasped as if in distress. With the instinct of a trained healer, Aragorn reached out to help her. The woman grasped his arm with one hand, reached inside her cloak with the other, and with sudden, terrible speed, drove a dagger into Aragorn's shoulder.
The King stumbled and cried out while the youth and other passers-by screamed in horror. More Guards rushed to the scene. Cursing, Cirion and Meneldil pulled the assassin off of their lord and hastily subdued her.
Aragorn was the first to collect himself. “Stay calm!” he cried. He slowly pulled the dagger from his shoulder. A merchant selling cloth at the next stall thrust a piece of linen into Aragorn’s hands. The King briskly staunched the wound with it. ”The wound is but slight,” he reassured the bystanders.
The woman gave an evil laugh grin. The Guards tore the hood away from her face revealing the swarthy skin and tattooed cheeks of a native of Far Harad. ”You are doomed to die, Elessar!” she spat in heavily accented Westron. “As you killed my husband, so I have killed you. My blade is coated with a deadly poison, which will slay you before twenty-four hours have passed!”
“You will pay dearly for this!” cried Meneldil, his young face fierce with rage.
The woman laughed maliciously. “There is nothing you can do to me, Elessar, for I have even less time left than you!” She raised her arm, so that her sleeve fell back to reveal a small cut on her arm. “A few hours ago, I cut myself with this poisoned blade that I might go to join my husband in the underworld. Then I thought, why not take you with me on my long journey as an offering to the spirits of the dead?”
“Take her to the Houses of Healing!” Aragorn commanded. ”See if the Healers can learn what venom she has used. Her dagger should yield traces of it.”
The Guards tried to march the woman off, but she seemed hardly able to place one foot in front of the other. ”See!” she cried in hideous joy, “Already the poison consumes me. Soon it will be your turn, Elessar!”
“Shall we escort you to the Houses as well, my lord?” Cirion enquired of Aragorn.
The King shook his head. ”If I am to die, I prefer to do so in my own bed!” he said grimly. ”Send a messenger to Lord Faramir in Ithilien on the swiftest horse that can be found and bid him come to me at once,” he ordered. “And summon the Warden of the Houses of Healing to my quarters once he has examined the woman.”
Refusing all offers of help from the Guards and concerned passers by, Aragorn made his way back to his apartments. His mind raced in turmoil. Was the woman telling the truth or was she simply mad? There had been a Southron incursion on the marches of Ithilien a few weeks past. Aragorn and Faramir had fought and killed those who had refused to surrender. He had slain their aging leader with his own hand. Those they had taken prisoner claimed their fallen leader was a venerable warlord. Could the slain Southron captain have been the woman’s husband?
Aragorn subdued a tremble. Could he truly be doomed to die within twenty-four hours? He had so much to live for! What of Arwen and his son? He did not want to leave them. And what of Faramir, his best friend and Steward? How could he leave those he loved so soon? Then what of Gondor and Arnor? Eldarion was scarcely more than a baby. What would happen to his kingdoms if he died now? Apart from the pain in his shoulder, Aragorn felt perfectly well. Surely his doom was not come so soon!
Aragorn paused briefly before the White Tree, wondering if he looked upon its beauty for the last time. The Tree of the Kings was still a slender sapling. He had hoped to watch it grow through the years, to see the Tree rise high and strong, its still fragile branches thicken and stretch out with new leaves over the Citadel where Isildur had once walked. He had hoped by the time he passed the Silver Crown to Eldarion that the roots would have grown deep and the trunk thick and sturdy.
Arwen hastened out to meet him at the entrance to his private apartments. Her beautiful face was pale and drawn. ”Estel, I have heard grave tidings!” she cried. ”Tell me it is not true that you have received a deadly wound?”
Aragorn clasped her tightly in his arms. ”I do not know, my love,” he said sadly. ”I need to examine the injury.” He made his way to his private chambers, closely followed by Arwen. Gathering his healing supplies, he spread them on the bed, then removed his makeshift bandage and pulled off his cloak, tunic and shirt.
The wound was small, less than an inch in length and scarcely bleeding. Hardly alarming to look upon, but already the wound felt hot, almost tingling, to Aragorn’s careful touch. The edges of the cut were a curious greenish shade. “Alas!” cried Aragorn. ”It is indeed poisoned, and not the usual venom favoured by the Haradrim, which is easy enough to treat with the right knowledge. I have never before come across this poison before!”
"It is such a tiny cut to be so deadly, Estel!" Arwen exclaimed softly, carefully studying the wound. The horror in her eyes chilled Aragorn. “Could my father's books hold the answers you seek?” she asked with sudden hope. “If only my brothers were here!”
“Your father would have shared the knowledge with me, had he possessed it,” Aragorn said sadly. ”He taught me all that he knew of the poisons used by the Dark Lord and his minions. I must proceed with the knowledge I already have, and the implements and medicines available here. Now I have need of hot water.”
While Arwen sought a servant, Aragorn plunged a knife into the fire that burned in the grate and waited for the blade to grow white hot. Retrieving the knife, he gritted his teeth and sliced into his shoulder, opening the existing wound wider and forcing it to bleed.
“Whatever are you doing?” Arwen asked in horror, returning with the water and hearing his stifled groans.
“Trying to flush out some of the poison,” he told her. ”‘Tis but a slim chance it will help, but any chance is better than none!” He took two athelas leaves from a pouch in his healing supplies, breathed on them and cast them into the hot water. “Will you bandage my shoulder, please?” he asked Arwen, pressing the leaves into the wound. “Athelas is the most potent weapon I know of against deadly venoms. Even as he spoke, Aragorn feared it was already too late. The tips of his fingers were beginning to feel numb, which he recalled Elrond once warning him to be aware of as an early symptom of poisoning. He stifled his rising feelings of panic and tried to calmly recall his Healer’s training. How else might he slow the deadly venom? Fluids might help flush some of it from his body. He found he craved tea, such as the Hobbits drank. He asked Arwen to send a servant to bring it. While they waited, Aragorn donned a loose robe, struggling to tie the sash around his waist.
Arwen noticed how he was fumbling, and knew why. The anguish in her eyes almost caused his heart to break there and then.
Aragorn could do nothing await Master Tarostar, Warden of the Houses of Healing and what tidings he might bring. He could only hope that Faramir would arrive while he was still conscious. There was so much he needed to tell his friend and Steward in the little time he had left. He could only wait and conserve his strength as best he could. Arwen sat beside him on the vast bed frantically searching through her father’s books for any clue how she could save her husband. There was none.
An hour or so later, Tarostar arrived. ”The woman refused to speak, not even to give her name,” he informed the King grimly. ”She is very near death now. We have dosed her with the antidote to every known poison, but alas, nothing is having any effect.”
Arwen buried her face in her hands.
“Keep on observing her,” Aragorn said, somehow maintaining a calm composure as his last hopes faded. ”Perhaps you will yet learn something of use.”
“Yes, my lord,” said the Warden, trying to mask his own emotions. “Is there any other assistance I may offer?”
“Not yet,” said Aragorn. ”I would be alone with my wife now until Lord Faramir arrives.”
As soon as the man left, Aragorn slumped back against the pillows. His hands now tingled up to the wrists and his fingers felt stiff and clumsy. “To think that I should die like this!” he cried in fury. “I fought many battles, knowing I might easily fall in combat, or that I might be killed by agents of the Dark Lord while I was in hiding. Now, just when I felt I could finally enjoy the fruits of my labours, I am doomed to fall at the hands of a madwoman! Why, why?”
Arwen could only shake her head, having no answer or comfort to offer him.
Thursday, September 11, 2008
A Taste of Honey
A Taste of Honey
Disclaimer - The characters are the property of the Tolkien Estate. No profit has been, nor will be made from this story.
With grateful thanks to Deandra
The Queen of Hearts,
She made some tarts
All on a summer's day.
The Knave of Hearts,
He stole the tarts
And took them clean away. – Traditional Nursery Rhyme
Honey cakes! How Eldarion loved them! They were his very favourite food. If only his nanny allowed him to eat them more often, but she usually wanted him to eat boring things like bread or porridge instead.
Today, Aragorn and Arwen’s young son was beside himself with excitement, for his mother had promised to take him to visit the kitchens. Arwen had explained that she wanted the cooks to know how much their work was appreciated, and to let Eldarion see how hard the kitchen servants laboured in order for him to enjoy his meals. He was hoping very much that the cook would make some of his favourite cakes for him.
When the Queen and her son reached the kitchens, Eldarion was thrilled to see the cook was taking a tray of freshly baked honey cakes from the oven. An apple-cheeked young maidservant carriedthe cakes to a nearby table to cool.
“May I have one, please?” Eldarion asked politely.
“I’m sorry, Master Eldarion, but these cakes are for the ladies in the Weavers' Guild," said the girl as she rushed back to the stove to tend to a boiling pot. "They are coming to visit your lady mother soon, so we have no time to make more for you.”
“Eldarion, I am certain that you can live throughout the day without a honey cake,” the Queen chided gently. “You see, ion nîn, the food prepared here is not just for us to eat, but for our guests too. And we must think of our guests' needs before our own."
Eldarion was not happy at all. There was a whole tray of honey cakes and he was not allowed to eat even one! His mother moved away to speak to the cook. They were soon engrossed in a deep conversation. No one was watching what one small boy was doing.
Eldarion had been told he should never take anything that was not his. His mother and father had chided him for taking his little sister’s toys, and told him it was very naughty. The boy studied the rapidly cooling cakes longingly. There were so many of them, that surely no one would notice if he took some? They were only cakes, not his sister’s favourite doll, which she cried if she could not play with. His mother was still talking to the cook, while the girl was stirring a pan on the other side of the room. With the inborn stealth of the son of a Peredhil and a Ranger, he seized two cakes from the edge of the tray and stuffed one in each of his tunic pockets.
When his mother at last finished her conversation, she insisted that they return to the nursery now, as she needed to prepare for her visitors later that afternoon.
Arwen lingered for a few moments after handing her son over to his nanny’s care, then took her leave, promising to return after the guests had departed. The nurse settled herself on a rocking chair in a corner by the fire and was soon dozing
Eldarion retrieved the cakes from his pockets and ate them, savouring each delicious bite. The fact they were forbidden made the cakes taste all the sweeter. He knew he had been naughty, but no one would ever find out!
That night, Brithil, the nursery maid who brought Eldarion his supper, was crying. Tears rolled down her cheeks, which she dabbed at with her apron. “What is wrong?” he asked her.
“My best friend, Indis, has been dismissed for stealing some cakes!” sobbed the girl. ”She says she didn’t do it, but cook won’t believe her, and your mother and father have told her she must leave tomorrow. I don’t know what will become of her!”
“Can’t she get more work somewhere else?” asked Eldarion, starting to wish that he had not taken the cakes.
“No one will employ a girl who has been dismissed for stealing!” sniffed Brithil. ”Indis’ father was crippled in the war and her family relies on her wages so that they will have enough to eat.”
Later, as he sat in his mother's solar and played with his toys before bedtime, Eldarion thought about Brithil's news. How could it be his fault that Indis was being made to leave? The cook was making a silly fuss over two small cakes. Then, maybe Indis had taken more cakes afterwards? They were far too tasty not to sample!
“You are very quiet tonight, Eldarion,” said Arwen. “What troubles you, my son?
Eldarion started guiltily. Somehow, his mother was always good at guessing his thoughts.
"Brithil says you are making her best friend, Indis leave," said Eldarion. "It's not fair!"
"Indis did wrong and must be punished," Arwen replied solemnly.
"But she only took some cakes!" Eldarion protested.
"It would matter not if she had taken a cake or one of my most valuable jewels," said the Queen. "Stealing is very wrong. Someone who steals is a thief, and a thief cannot be trusted. Indis did not even steal the cakes out of hunger; as all the servants get as much to eat as they want at mealtimes. What made it worse, was that she refused to tell the truth. If she had confessed to taking the cakes and apologised, your father and I would have forgiven her."
"Um, maybe someone else took them," Eldarion said hesitantly.
His mother shook her head. "That is impossible. No one else, save the cook was in the kitchens, and cook would not steal her own cakes." Arwen sighed. "I know it is hard for you to understand why we have to dismiss Indis, but when you are older you will. Come now, it is past your bedtime."
For a moment, Eldarion was tempted to tell his mother everything. Then he thought how angry and disappointed with him she would be. She would tell his father too, and the King would be furious. Eldarion was frightened of his father’s anger. Aragorn did not beat him, but he sometimes shouted, and the look in his eyes was very scary. He would be punished too, by being made to do something horrid, like having extra lessons.
Eldarion slept little that night, as he could not stop thinking. No one would ever find out that it was he who stole the cakes, so why should he worry about it? Perhaps Indis would find a new job that was more fun than being a kitchen maid? But what if she didn’t? Eldarion had seen beggars on the street who looked very hungry and were dressed in rags. His parents had set up a house of refuge for them, but he did not think Indis and her family would like to live there. The troubled boy finally fell asleep only to dream of a vast plate of cakes above his head, which he tried vainly to reach.
Brithil brought him a delicious breakfast of soft white bread, thickly spread with butter and honey, as well as creamy milk to drink, but he was not hungry and ate only a few mouthfuls.
“What is wrong?” asked Brithil. ”Don’t you feel well, Master Eldarion?”
Eldarion took a deep breath. ”I need to see my father,” he said, rushing out of the room before he could change his mind. A servant escorted him to the King’s study where Aragorn was working.
“Come in!” Aragorn looked up in surprise to see his son hesitating on the threshold of his study. “What is the matter, ion nîn? ” he asked, concerned at Eldarion’s downcast demeanour.
“Adar! I stole those cakes, I don’t want the kitchen maid to lose her job!” Eldarion blurted out. He stood rooted to the spot, resisting the urge to run away and hide from his father’s fury.
“You did what?” Aragorn sounded somewhat incredulous. ”Why should you steal cakes? Are you trying to protect someone? I cannot believe that my son would steal!”
“I fear I did, Adar. I love honey cakes and could not resist them! I took two when no one was looking and stuffed them in my pockets. I know I was very naughty, I’m sorry.” Eldarion glanced at his father’s face. Then unable to endure the look of anger, sorrow, and disappointment in his sire’s eyes, stared at the floor.
At last the King spoke, ”I expected better than this from you, Eldarion,” he said gravely. “I never thought to see the day when my son would act like a common thief! You did, however, own up, rather than let an innocent girl take the blame.”
“I’m very sorry, Adar,” whispered Eldarion. “I won’t do it again.”
“I should think not,” said Aragorn. “I hope you have learned your lesson. To ensure that you do so; you shall not go out riding for a week, nor will you eat any cakes. Instead you will spend more time learning about history, and practicing your writing. I also expect you to apologise to the maid. I will take you to her now.”
Eldarion was marched by his father to the servant’s quarters. The Housekeeper took them to the room that Indis shared with Brithil and another girl. Indis was packing her possessions prior to leaving, and weeping bitterly. She started when she saw the King and bowed low.
“My son has something he wishes to say to you,” said the King.
“Indis, I’m sorry, I got you into trouble,” said Eldarion. “I stole those cakes.”
“The queen and I apologise for wrongly accusing you,” Aragorn said gravely. “We hope you will stay here with us. We will try to make up for the distress you have suffered. Would you like to take a week's paid leave, to spend time with your family within the next week or two?”
“Oh, thank you, my lord! Of course, I want to stay; I love it here!” Indis sobbed even more loudly. “I should love to be able to visit my mother for her birthday next month!”
“And so you shall,” smiled Aragorn.
“Well unpack your things again, then,” said the Housekeeper. “The cook will expect you back in the kitchens this afternoon.”
“Dry your eyes now,” Aragorn said kindly. “The Queen will speak to you later. And Mistress,” he addressed the Housekeeper, "Please make sure that Indis' good name has not suffered for my son's thievery. Anyone who speaks ill of her shall answer to the Queen."
000
The days seemed to pass very slowly for Eldarion. He endured his punishment without complaint and worked hard at his lessons. He was very glad when the week was over.
When Eldarion came back from riding on the first day he was allowed out on his pony again, he found his mother waiting for him with a plate of honey cakes. “Indis made these for you today,” said Arwen. “As I believe you have learned your lesson, you may have some.”
Eldarion took a cake and nibbled it thoughtfully.
“What is the matter?” Arwen enquired. “You do not seem to be enjoying your cake.”
“Somehow, the honey cakes do not seem as sweet as they did before,” said Eldarion, sounding puzzled. “I must thank Indis, though.”
“You have grown up a great deal this past week,” said Arwen. “You have learned that honey cakes are not the most important thing in life!”
“I am proud of you, ion nîn,” said Aragorn, entering the room. “You acted like a true Son of the House of Telcontar by choosing to do what was right.” He smiled ruefully, recalling a day long ago when he had stolen some apples from Master Elrond’s favourite tree and suffered a severe stomach ache all night long as consequence, which his foster father had decided was punishment enough. Growing up was indeed a long and difficult journey, but it seemed that Eldarion at least had embarked in the right direction.
A Taste of Honey
Disclaimer - The characters are the property of the Tolkien Estate. No profit has been, nor will be made from this story.
With grateful thanks to Deandra
The Queen of Hearts,
She made some tarts
All on a summer's day.
The Knave of Hearts,
He stole the tarts
And took them clean away. – Traditional Nursery Rhyme
Honey cakes! How Eldarion loved them! They were his very favourite food. If only his nanny allowed him to eat them more often, but she usually wanted him to eat boring things like bread or porridge instead.
Today, Aragorn and Arwen’s young son was beside himself with excitement, for his mother had promised to take him to visit the kitchens. Arwen had explained that she wanted the cooks to know how much their work was appreciated, and to let Eldarion see how hard the kitchen servants laboured in order for him to enjoy his meals. He was hoping very much that the cook would make some of his favourite cakes for him.
When the Queen and her son reached the kitchens, Eldarion was thrilled to see the cook was taking a tray of freshly baked honey cakes from the oven. An apple-cheeked young maidservant carriedthe cakes to a nearby table to cool.
“May I have one, please?” Eldarion asked politely.
“I’m sorry, Master Eldarion, but these cakes are for the ladies in the Weavers' Guild," said the girl as she rushed back to the stove to tend to a boiling pot. "They are coming to visit your lady mother soon, so we have no time to make more for you.”
“Eldarion, I am certain that you can live throughout the day without a honey cake,” the Queen chided gently. “You see, ion nîn, the food prepared here is not just for us to eat, but for our guests too. And we must think of our guests' needs before our own."
Eldarion was not happy at all. There was a whole tray of honey cakes and he was not allowed to eat even one! His mother moved away to speak to the cook. They were soon engrossed in a deep conversation. No one was watching what one small boy was doing.
Eldarion had been told he should never take anything that was not his. His mother and father had chided him for taking his little sister’s toys, and told him it was very naughty. The boy studied the rapidly cooling cakes longingly. There were so many of them, that surely no one would notice if he took some? They were only cakes, not his sister’s favourite doll, which she cried if she could not play with. His mother was still talking to the cook, while the girl was stirring a pan on the other side of the room. With the inborn stealth of the son of a Peredhil and a Ranger, he seized two cakes from the edge of the tray and stuffed one in each of his tunic pockets.
When his mother at last finished her conversation, she insisted that they return to the nursery now, as she needed to prepare for her visitors later that afternoon.
Arwen lingered for a few moments after handing her son over to his nanny’s care, then took her leave, promising to return after the guests had departed. The nurse settled herself on a rocking chair in a corner by the fire and was soon dozing
Eldarion retrieved the cakes from his pockets and ate them, savouring each delicious bite. The fact they were forbidden made the cakes taste all the sweeter. He knew he had been naughty, but no one would ever find out!
That night, Brithil, the nursery maid who brought Eldarion his supper, was crying. Tears rolled down her cheeks, which she dabbed at with her apron. “What is wrong?” he asked her.
“My best friend, Indis, has been dismissed for stealing some cakes!” sobbed the girl. ”She says she didn’t do it, but cook won’t believe her, and your mother and father have told her she must leave tomorrow. I don’t know what will become of her!”
“Can’t she get more work somewhere else?” asked Eldarion, starting to wish that he had not taken the cakes.
“No one will employ a girl who has been dismissed for stealing!” sniffed Brithil. ”Indis’ father was crippled in the war and her family relies on her wages so that they will have enough to eat.”
Later, as he sat in his mother's solar and played with his toys before bedtime, Eldarion thought about Brithil's news. How could it be his fault that Indis was being made to leave? The cook was making a silly fuss over two small cakes. Then, maybe Indis had taken more cakes afterwards? They were far too tasty not to sample!
“You are very quiet tonight, Eldarion,” said Arwen. “What troubles you, my son?
Eldarion started guiltily. Somehow, his mother was always good at guessing his thoughts.
"Brithil says you are making her best friend, Indis leave," said Eldarion. "It's not fair!"
"Indis did wrong and must be punished," Arwen replied solemnly.
"But she only took some cakes!" Eldarion protested.
"It would matter not if she had taken a cake or one of my most valuable jewels," said the Queen. "Stealing is very wrong. Someone who steals is a thief, and a thief cannot be trusted. Indis did not even steal the cakes out of hunger; as all the servants get as much to eat as they want at mealtimes. What made it worse, was that she refused to tell the truth. If she had confessed to taking the cakes and apologised, your father and I would have forgiven her."
"Um, maybe someone else took them," Eldarion said hesitantly.
His mother shook her head. "That is impossible. No one else, save the cook was in the kitchens, and cook would not steal her own cakes." Arwen sighed. "I know it is hard for you to understand why we have to dismiss Indis, but when you are older you will. Come now, it is past your bedtime."
For a moment, Eldarion was tempted to tell his mother everything. Then he thought how angry and disappointed with him she would be. She would tell his father too, and the King would be furious. Eldarion was frightened of his father’s anger. Aragorn did not beat him, but he sometimes shouted, and the look in his eyes was very scary. He would be punished too, by being made to do something horrid, like having extra lessons.
Eldarion slept little that night, as he could not stop thinking. No one would ever find out that it was he who stole the cakes, so why should he worry about it? Perhaps Indis would find a new job that was more fun than being a kitchen maid? But what if she didn’t? Eldarion had seen beggars on the street who looked very hungry and were dressed in rags. His parents had set up a house of refuge for them, but he did not think Indis and her family would like to live there. The troubled boy finally fell asleep only to dream of a vast plate of cakes above his head, which he tried vainly to reach.
Brithil brought him a delicious breakfast of soft white bread, thickly spread with butter and honey, as well as creamy milk to drink, but he was not hungry and ate only a few mouthfuls.
“What is wrong?” asked Brithil. ”Don’t you feel well, Master Eldarion?”
Eldarion took a deep breath. ”I need to see my father,” he said, rushing out of the room before he could change his mind. A servant escorted him to the King’s study where Aragorn was working.
“Come in!” Aragorn looked up in surprise to see his son hesitating on the threshold of his study. “What is the matter, ion nîn? ” he asked, concerned at Eldarion’s downcast demeanour.
“Adar! I stole those cakes, I don’t want the kitchen maid to lose her job!” Eldarion blurted out. He stood rooted to the spot, resisting the urge to run away and hide from his father’s fury.
“You did what?” Aragorn sounded somewhat incredulous. ”Why should you steal cakes? Are you trying to protect someone? I cannot believe that my son would steal!”
“I fear I did, Adar. I love honey cakes and could not resist them! I took two when no one was looking and stuffed them in my pockets. I know I was very naughty, I’m sorry.” Eldarion glanced at his father’s face. Then unable to endure the look of anger, sorrow, and disappointment in his sire’s eyes, stared at the floor.
At last the King spoke, ”I expected better than this from you, Eldarion,” he said gravely. “I never thought to see the day when my son would act like a common thief! You did, however, own up, rather than let an innocent girl take the blame.”
“I’m very sorry, Adar,” whispered Eldarion. “I won’t do it again.”
“I should think not,” said Aragorn. “I hope you have learned your lesson. To ensure that you do so; you shall not go out riding for a week, nor will you eat any cakes. Instead you will spend more time learning about history, and practicing your writing. I also expect you to apologise to the maid. I will take you to her now.”
Eldarion was marched by his father to the servant’s quarters. The Housekeeper took them to the room that Indis shared with Brithil and another girl. Indis was packing her possessions prior to leaving, and weeping bitterly. She started when she saw the King and bowed low.
“My son has something he wishes to say to you,” said the King.
“Indis, I’m sorry, I got you into trouble,” said Eldarion. “I stole those cakes.”
“The queen and I apologise for wrongly accusing you,” Aragorn said gravely. “We hope you will stay here with us. We will try to make up for the distress you have suffered. Would you like to take a week's paid leave, to spend time with your family within the next week or two?”
“Oh, thank you, my lord! Of course, I want to stay; I love it here!” Indis sobbed even more loudly. “I should love to be able to visit my mother for her birthday next month!”
“And so you shall,” smiled Aragorn.
“Well unpack your things again, then,” said the Housekeeper. “The cook will expect you back in the kitchens this afternoon.”
“Dry your eyes now,” Aragorn said kindly. “The Queen will speak to you later. And Mistress,” he addressed the Housekeeper, "Please make sure that Indis' good name has not suffered for my son's thievery. Anyone who speaks ill of her shall answer to the Queen."
000
The days seemed to pass very slowly for Eldarion. He endured his punishment without complaint and worked hard at his lessons. He was very glad when the week was over.
When Eldarion came back from riding on the first day he was allowed out on his pony again, he found his mother waiting for him with a plate of honey cakes. “Indis made these for you today,” said Arwen. “As I believe you have learned your lesson, you may have some.”
Eldarion took a cake and nibbled it thoughtfully.
“What is the matter?” Arwen enquired. “You do not seem to be enjoying your cake.”
“Somehow, the honey cakes do not seem as sweet as they did before,” said Eldarion, sounding puzzled. “I must thank Indis, though.”
“You have grown up a great deal this past week,” said Arwen. “You have learned that honey cakes are not the most important thing in life!”
“I am proud of you, ion nîn,” said Aragorn, entering the room. “You acted like a true Son of the House of Telcontar by choosing to do what was right.” He smiled ruefully, recalling a day long ago when he had stolen some apples from Master Elrond’s favourite tree and suffered a severe stomach ache all night long as consequence, which his foster father had decided was punishment enough. Growing up was indeed a long and difficult journey, but it seemed that Eldarion at least had embarked in the right direction.
Sunday, August 31, 2008
Come, ye thankful people, come, raise the song of harvest home;
All is safely gathered in, ere the winter storms begin.
God our Maker doth provide for our wants to be supplied;
Come to God’s own temple, come, raise the song of harvest home. – Henry Alford 1844
The characters are the property of the Tolkien Estate. No profit has been, nor will be made from this story.
With very grateful thanks to Raksha who co- wrote this chapter with me.
It rained lightly during the night; Aragorn and Faramir slumbered peacefully, sheltered by the mighty oak. They slept through cockcrow and only awoke when the sun streamed through the branches causing their damp blankets to gently steam.
The two friends arose rather stiffly made their way to the centre of the village where the country folk were eating breakfast. “It promises to be a fine day for the celebrations,” said Tasariel greeting them warmly. “The air feels nice and fresh after the rain. I have your clothes ready for you.”
“Thank you, Mistress,” said Aragorn. “How fares Thoron?”
“Well enough, I believe,” said the village Healer. “I was not summoned during the night.”
“I had better rouse him ere I eat,” said Aragorn.
“How did you make him sleep so soundly?” Tasariel asked.
“It is another gift of my line,” Aragorn explained. ”I am able to send a patient into a healing sleep, but it is very difficult for any other to rouse them from it.”
“Well, I suggest we tend this young dragon ere he awakens,” the Healer suggested.
Thoron looked rather pale, but when Aragorn and Tasariel examined the sleeping boy, they found no trace of fever, his pulse was steady and the gash on his leg was clean and already starting to heal, somewhat to Tasariel’s astonishment. “Another gift of your line?” she queried when Gilrath’s back was turned.
Aragorn nodded. ”It gladdens my heart that Thoron will still be able to support his family. I was concerned for them. Your son will soon be well and should be able to leave his bed later," he told Gilrath. "He will need rest and good food for a while, but his leg should heal completely.” He lightly brushed Thoron’s eyelids with his fingertips, then retreated outside, leaving the cantankerous youth to Tasariel's and his mother’s care. Tasariel joined him a few minutes later.
“Thoron is clear-headed, hungry, and in a very bad temper!” the village Healer informed Aragorn. “Maybe I should not have told him that he can borrow the breeches you are wearing until his own are clean and mended!” Her eyes twinkled mischievously. “I will bring your clean garb and some washing water to your hut. Leave your linens for me to wash.”
Aragorn joined his Steward outside their hut. A few moments later Tasariel appeared with their clothes while her neighbour carried a jug of steaming water for them to wash in.
Faramir and Aragorn bathed, then thankfully changed into clean linens and their own tunics and breeches. It was blissful to have well-fitted clothes and breeches that did not threaten to fall down with every step they took!
Breakfast was a cheerful affair. The villagers boasted of the bounty of their yield over that of other villages. Long-married folk teased some of the youngest men and women about upcoming weddings. The children could not contain their own excitement over the imminent ceremony, devouring their food like ravenous puppies, occasionally earning parental displeasure when they tried to instigate battle with the wooden forks, and constantly jumping up and down from their benches to visit each other. . Harvest was the highlight of the rural year, when country folk allowed themselves to eat drink and be merry.
While the menfolk gathered in the last few remaining sheaves, the women and elder children decorated the barn where the grain would be stored throughout the coming months. Aragorn and Faramir helped hang decorations; hearts and circles woven from the corn and adorned with ribbons, on the high beams at Tasariel’s instructions.
The women and children argued loudly about who would be the king and queen.
“Would Thoron have been a likely candidate?” Aragorn enquired. “It seems that he works hard to support his family.”
Tasariel laughed. ”That young braggart! Not likely! We always choose someone who has proved as fertile as we hope the land will be.”
“I think Pelendur and Emerwen will be chosen,” said a woman. “Still, it is for the Elders to decide who will be honoured.”
The barn looked magnificent when the decorations were completed. Tasariel explained to the visitors that it would be left like that for the winter to honour Yavanna and fend off evil spirits.
The decorating continued outside. Even the trees nearest to the centre of the village were festooned with wild flowers, a colourful array of cornflowers, buttercups and daisies. It was a perfect day for the festival, sunny but not too hot.
At noon, a group of barefoot maidens garbed in somewhat well worn dresses of Yavanna's green led the villagers to the oak that had sheltered Aragorn and Faramir during the night. A makeshift platform had been constructed beneath it, set atop bales of hay, on which the village elders now stood. All the folk of the village, from infants to the oldest greybeard, wore their finest raiment, with sprigs of flowers pinned to their tunics at the throat or over the heart. Their freshly scrubbed faces were aglow with happy anticipation.
A hush of expectation fell over the villagers as Borlach stepped foreword.
“People of Celonhaer,” he began. “Our village has suffered many hardships and losses this year, but today we can rejoice. Thanks to Yavanna's grace, rain has come in time to bless us with a bountiful harvest. As always, the village will crown a king and queen as chosen by the elders. This year’s queen was not an easy choice, as many of our women are strong of heart, fruitful and fair; but we have decided on a lass loved by you all, Vanreth daughter of Garathon!”
The people cheered loudly. Hareth was weeping tears of joy.
Aragorn and Faramir exchanged smiles. Vanreth’s devotion to her child and courageous insistence on seeing the dead spider had greatly impressed them. They were curious now to see who would be chosen as king.
“Maybe it will be Finrod?” whispered Faramir. ”He seems a decent young fellow.”
“I would guess Pelendur,” said Aragorn. “These people prize fruitfulness highly and the young man will soon become a father.”
Borlach raised his hand for silence. “The choice of a king was much easier,” he said. “Surely this man was sent to us in our hour of need by the Valar, though, alas we were slow to see his true worth! Without his good counsel, there would be three less of us here to celebrate this day, while without the valour of this man and his son, a foul monster would still threaten our people. Master Morrandir of Minas Tirith shall be the King of our Harvest!”
The villagers cheered and clapped. Faramir leapt to his feet in joy and embraced his friend. Aragorn sat stunned for a moment unable to take it in. Vanreth smilingly approached him, her hand outstretched. ”They are waiting to crown us,” she said.
“Go, Ada, the people await their King!” cried Faramir, embracing his lord in delight.
Aragorn and Vanreth made their way to the platform. There, Tasariel awaited him, holding out a circlet of golden stonecrop entwined with ivy. Aragorn bent his head, allowing the healer to place the summer crown upon it. Tears pricked his eyes, as he rose and looked out upon the cheering faces. This meant far more to him than these people would ever know. They had chosen him as their King! This time it was not the heir of Elendil who had been chosen by right of birth, but Aragorn the man!
“Let the King and Queen perform the planting ceremony,” Borlach announced as Tasariel crowned Hareth with a circlet of the bell-shaped mallos blossoms, also golden, and leaves of clover.
At a gesture from the headman, two children, a boy and a girl, brought forth the two large corn dollies.
“The King will now bless the corn,” said Tasariel.
Aragorn could not resist a smile. He had often been asked to perform a similar office both as Chieftain and King. “ Gracious Yavanna, Queen of the Earth, Giver of Fruits,” he intoned. “We, thy children beseech thy blessing upon thy bounty. May the clouds yield forth rain and the earth bring forth fruit that they children may want not. We praise thy blessed name!”
The villagers looked rather surprised at such eloquence and chapped and cheered loudly.
The little girl reverently took a corn dolly to the barn, while the boy handed the other to Aragorn and Vanreth. The Harvest King and Queen carried it between them in solemn procession to the nearest field. Tasariel and Borlach led the way.
Faramir remembered a Westron hymn to Yavanna he had learned in his youth and started to sing. Many of the people knew the tune and joined in.
A deep and recently dug hole, surrounded by bunches of flowers, gouged the earth. It looked suspiciously like a grave. “Now is come time for the King and Queen to make the sacrifice on behalf of the people,” said Borlach in a slow, steady voice that carried across the crowd. Tasariel pulled a sharp knife out of a fine leather scabbard at her belt.
Faramir, who stood just behind Aragorn, looked alarmed. His hand went to his sword. “They cannot mean to kill you!” he whispered in horror.
Aragorn shook his head. ”Peace, son of my heart,” he whispered. “They have a similar custom in the North. It has its roots in an older, darker tradition, but I have never been any the worst for it!”
“They never made sacrifices at Dol Amroth!” Faramir protested. ”We scattered a handful of grain and that was all!”
Two other children, a boy and a girl on the edge between childhood and youth, came to take the corn dolly from Aragorn and Vanreth and held it in front of them. The young woman was already calmly baring her arm. Aragorn did likewise. Faramir stood quietly in a warrior's stance, legs slightly bent, hand gripping his sword-hilt, poised to defend his lord.
Tasariel raised the knife and with it made a very small cut in Aragorn’s forearm and then did the same to Vanreth. She raised their arms so that a drop of blood from each fell upon the corn dolly. ”The sacrifice is made! The land will bear fruit!” Tasariel cried.
The two youngsters reverently laid the corn dolly in the earth, while Tasariel bandaged the King and Queen’s arms.
“Long ago they would sacrifice a man and a maiden, or so Elrond told me,” Aragorn explained to Faramir. ”Now a few drops of blood suffice in remote country areas where the custom continues.”
All the villagers helped to cover the corn dolly with the rich dark soil. The people then returned to the village in a cheerful mood.
“The King and Queen of the harvest will now lead the dancing,” Borlach declared. A young man produced a reed pipe and played a merry tune.
Aragorn looked rather hesitantly at his “queen.” He only had one true Queen. As he thought of her, he was seized with a sudden longing that he had not felt in months. He hastily collected himself and turned his attention back to lady he must dance with now. He supposed Arwen would understand that that this was merely a custom of Lossarnach. After all, Aragorn had danced with Lothiriel, and Arwen with Éomer, at the wedding of the Lord of the Mark. And Vanreth's husband Finrod seemed to have no objection, the man was smiling as he held his young son in his arms. The little boy was fascinated by his mother’s crown of flowers and followed her with his eyes.
Aragorn faced the Harvest Queen with a small fire, bordered by stones, between them; a part of the festivities in both North and South. They bowed heads slightly, to show respect without loosening their crowns,. Then King and Queen clasped hands and trod the ancient measures of the Harvest Fire Dance, faster and faster to the quickening pipe notes, until they finished with a high leap over the fire. Aragorn and Vanreth stood apart, her left hand lightly holding his wrist, their other hands held high as if to entreat the sky. The villagers whistled and roared their approval.
Aragorn returned the somewhat flushed young woman to her husband. He was about to sit down when Tasariel approached him a gleam in her eye. “The Village Healer has the right to claim a dance with the King!” she said.
“It is my honour, Mistress,” replied Aragorn. They owed much to the lady and he felt it would be churlish to refuse her. He clasped Tasariel's weathered hand and joined the others in a slower version of the Harvest Fire Dance, dancing in a huge ring with the fire in its centre. Only the Harvest King and Queen were allowed to leap the fire, which would be extinguished before the night ended.
Faramir meanwhile danced with one of Thoron’s sisters, a girl of some fourteen years. The women had their pick, for after so many years of warfare, the fairer sex greatly outnumbered the menfolk. Many women either danced with one another or sat and watched. Faramir noticed the speculative glances given him and Aragorn by some of the widows and maidens. He was careful to treat each one as if she was his Aunt Ivriniel, who was a spirited and graceful dancer.
The music then changed to lighter, jollier rhythms. Groups of men and women formed lines and circles, thus ensuring no one was omitted, and began to step in and out with quick, merry kicks between linked hands. Despite weeks of exhausting labour in the fields, the villagers danced joyfully and seemed never to tire. Faramir noted that even the youngest of children, toddlers barely able to walk, merrily circled about in time to the music, their steps guided by older sisters and brothers. The older children danced with each other, save for a few of the twelve-year-olds, who were brought to dance with their adult kinfolk. Of all the young men, Thoron alone did not dance. The youth sat still, his injured leg propped up on a footstool. Borlach's eldest granddaughter, a lass of about eighteen summers, attended Thoron, bringing him wine with a soft smile. For once, Thoron looked content, and was seen to smile back at the pretty maiden more than once.
The dancing continued until sunset, circle and line dances yielding to the Flower land Reel that had been a favourite in Lossarnach since before Ecthelion's Stewardship. Tasariel insisted on a dance with Faramir, while Hareth danced with Aragorn. Then the men and older boys, bearing beribboned staffs, began the whirling turns of the Bucks' Dance.
The women and children left the men dancing, while they slipped away to bring out the food which they had taken turns to prepare since the morning. They laid it on the tables, keeping a watchful eye open to keep insects away.
Soon, three trestle tables were laden with platters and bowls. Faramir's mouth watered as he surveyed the fare: warm loaves of crusty bread, giant cheeses, mushrooms simmered in wine, carrot pudding dotted with dates and currants, and one of his own favourite dishes - "Dragon Eggs", eggs stuffed with cheese, raisins and herbs. And that was just the start! The women had also laid out river trout cooked in butter and parsley, rabbit in broth, chicken roasted with apples and chestnuts, and a stuffed roasted pig!
Aragorn took his seat at the head of one table with Vanreth at his side. Faramir was also given a place of honour together with Tasariel and Borlach. Tasariel insisted on heaping Faramir's plate with additional portions and encouraging him to eat, much to the amusement of her sons and daughter-in-law. Such kindness was welcome, though barely needed. Aragorn and Faramir ate until they thought they could eat no more; and quenched their thirst with the famed palegolden wine of Lossarnach. They loosened their belts as the tables were cleared. The women then brought seed cakes, pears soaked in wine and honey, and apple fritters fried in batter and cinnamon.
The company ate and drank and told tales until the full moon was high in the sky. From his days as Chieftain, Aragorn knew what was expected of him and glad he had kept a clear enough head to fulfil his duties. He rose to his feet. ”Gracious Yavanna, your bounty has blessed us abundantly tonight,” he said in a loud clear tone. “May Anor and Isil smile on our labours throughout our planting and reaping. May the land and her people be forever fruitful! May we sleep well tonight under Isil’s protection!”
The villagers clapped and cheered. Faramir heard one old woman say “How lordly Master Morrandir is, he is the best King we have had in many a year!” Tears welled up in Faramir's eyes even as he beamed with joy Little did these country-folk know how truly they spoke! He could only hope his reactions would be attributed to the wine.
Aragorn and Vanreth rose from the table to signal the end of the feast. The villagers slowly began to disperse.
“We thank you for your hospitality, ”said Aragorn to the Village Elders. ”You have made us most welcome.”
“The coming of you and your son has been a blessing,” said Borlach gravely. "Without your foresight and aid, Vanreth and her babe would have been buried untimely and suffered horrible deaths. And the evil thing that struck them would still live, to kill more of our livestock and our people!"
“And it is not every night I can dance with the King!” said Tasariel, still with a twinkle in her eye.
Aragorn and Faramir made their way to their favoured spot under the oak tree and spread out their bedrolls. Faramir was slow to settle and tossed restlessly.
“Whatever ails you? It is time to sleep!" Aragorn enquired rather tetchily.
“My stomach aches,” Faramir confessed, rubbing his stomach ruefully. ”I cannot get comfortable.”
“Little wonder given the amount you ate!” Aragorn replied. ”It seems Mistress Tasariel made good her word in feeding you up! Come here, then, and I will try to ease you.” He held his hands a few inches above Faramir's stomach.
Faramir, who simply expected Aragorn to use a gentle Elven healing touch, gave a cry of surprise at the amount of heat emanating from Aragorn’s hands. The pain in his belly swiftly subsided.
“What is the matter?” asked Aragorn.
“I have never known your healing power so strong!” Faramir exclaimed.
“I was again crowned King today,” said Aragorn thoughtfully. "I intend to preserve some of the flowers from my crown." He yawned loudly and settled under his blanket.
Soon, a gentle wind seemed to kiss the trees good night, leaving a hooting owl as the only creature to cry out under the heavens. King and Steward slept peacefully side by side, their sleeping forms illuminated by Isil’s gentle rays.
TBC
CO-AUTHOR'S NOTES: I was inspired in my conception of the villagers' circle dance by the descriptions in Wikipedia dot com, of the "horo", a Bulgarian dance with many patterns of diverse steps that can be danced in a circle or a curving line of people. I envisioned the Harvest Fire Dance as sort of a cross between a sword dance and parts of Stravinsky's Rite of Spring ballet (only without the human sacrifice at the end!).
The Flower land Reel is a dance of my own imagination; inspired by Tolkien's mentions of the flowers of Lossarnach. It is based loosely on the Virginia Reel, and much too complicated to describe in any detail. I'm not sure exactly what the Bucks' Dance is, except that men do it, is noisy and necessitates strength and skill, has some fertility implications, and probably involves twirling and thwacking of staffs.
The villagers' harvest feast menu is inspired, once again, by the descriptions and recipes at gode cookery dot com, a wonderful website for medieval and renaissance food.
Any errors or misconceptions about the dancing and country cuisine are of Raksha the Demon's devising, please don't blame Linda.
A/N. A very big thank you to everyone who reviewed the previous chapter. I am continuing to revise and rewrite “Shadow and Thought” on this site and would be interested to hear if you feel it has improved any.I have posted a new story “No Hope for Myself.” And there is a a new fun quiz about my stories on my LJ, which I invite you to try.
I hope my friends in the USA are enjoying their holiday. - Linda
All is safely gathered in, ere the winter storms begin.
God our Maker doth provide for our wants to be supplied;
Come to God’s own temple, come, raise the song of harvest home. – Henry Alford 1844
The characters are the property of the Tolkien Estate. No profit has been, nor will be made from this story.
With very grateful thanks to Raksha who co- wrote this chapter with me.
It rained lightly during the night; Aragorn and Faramir slumbered peacefully, sheltered by the mighty oak. They slept through cockcrow and only awoke when the sun streamed through the branches causing their damp blankets to gently steam.
The two friends arose rather stiffly made their way to the centre of the village where the country folk were eating breakfast. “It promises to be a fine day for the celebrations,” said Tasariel greeting them warmly. “The air feels nice and fresh after the rain. I have your clothes ready for you.”
“Thank you, Mistress,” said Aragorn. “How fares Thoron?”
“Well enough, I believe,” said the village Healer. “I was not summoned during the night.”
“I had better rouse him ere I eat,” said Aragorn.
“How did you make him sleep so soundly?” Tasariel asked.
“It is another gift of my line,” Aragorn explained. ”I am able to send a patient into a healing sleep, but it is very difficult for any other to rouse them from it.”
“Well, I suggest we tend this young dragon ere he awakens,” the Healer suggested.
Thoron looked rather pale, but when Aragorn and Tasariel examined the sleeping boy, they found no trace of fever, his pulse was steady and the gash on his leg was clean and already starting to heal, somewhat to Tasariel’s astonishment. “Another gift of your line?” she queried when Gilrath’s back was turned.
Aragorn nodded. ”It gladdens my heart that Thoron will still be able to support his family. I was concerned for them. Your son will soon be well and should be able to leave his bed later," he told Gilrath. "He will need rest and good food for a while, but his leg should heal completely.” He lightly brushed Thoron’s eyelids with his fingertips, then retreated outside, leaving the cantankerous youth to Tasariel's and his mother’s care. Tasariel joined him a few minutes later.
“Thoron is clear-headed, hungry, and in a very bad temper!” the village Healer informed Aragorn. “Maybe I should not have told him that he can borrow the breeches you are wearing until his own are clean and mended!” Her eyes twinkled mischievously. “I will bring your clean garb and some washing water to your hut. Leave your linens for me to wash.”
Aragorn joined his Steward outside their hut. A few moments later Tasariel appeared with their clothes while her neighbour carried a jug of steaming water for them to wash in.
Faramir and Aragorn bathed, then thankfully changed into clean linens and their own tunics and breeches. It was blissful to have well-fitted clothes and breeches that did not threaten to fall down with every step they took!
Breakfast was a cheerful affair. The villagers boasted of the bounty of their yield over that of other villages. Long-married folk teased some of the youngest men and women about upcoming weddings. The children could not contain their own excitement over the imminent ceremony, devouring their food like ravenous puppies, occasionally earning parental displeasure when they tried to instigate battle with the wooden forks, and constantly jumping up and down from their benches to visit each other. . Harvest was the highlight of the rural year, when country folk allowed themselves to eat drink and be merry.
While the menfolk gathered in the last few remaining sheaves, the women and elder children decorated the barn where the grain would be stored throughout the coming months. Aragorn and Faramir helped hang decorations; hearts and circles woven from the corn and adorned with ribbons, on the high beams at Tasariel’s instructions.
The women and children argued loudly about who would be the king and queen.
“Would Thoron have been a likely candidate?” Aragorn enquired. “It seems that he works hard to support his family.”
Tasariel laughed. ”That young braggart! Not likely! We always choose someone who has proved as fertile as we hope the land will be.”
“I think Pelendur and Emerwen will be chosen,” said a woman. “Still, it is for the Elders to decide who will be honoured.”
The barn looked magnificent when the decorations were completed. Tasariel explained to the visitors that it would be left like that for the winter to honour Yavanna and fend off evil spirits.
The decorating continued outside. Even the trees nearest to the centre of the village were festooned with wild flowers, a colourful array of cornflowers, buttercups and daisies. It was a perfect day for the festival, sunny but not too hot.
At noon, a group of barefoot maidens garbed in somewhat well worn dresses of Yavanna's green led the villagers to the oak that had sheltered Aragorn and Faramir during the night. A makeshift platform had been constructed beneath it, set atop bales of hay, on which the village elders now stood. All the folk of the village, from infants to the oldest greybeard, wore their finest raiment, with sprigs of flowers pinned to their tunics at the throat or over the heart. Their freshly scrubbed faces were aglow with happy anticipation.
A hush of expectation fell over the villagers as Borlach stepped foreword.
“People of Celonhaer,” he began. “Our village has suffered many hardships and losses this year, but today we can rejoice. Thanks to Yavanna's grace, rain has come in time to bless us with a bountiful harvest. As always, the village will crown a king and queen as chosen by the elders. This year’s queen was not an easy choice, as many of our women are strong of heart, fruitful and fair; but we have decided on a lass loved by you all, Vanreth daughter of Garathon!”
The people cheered loudly. Hareth was weeping tears of joy.
Aragorn and Faramir exchanged smiles. Vanreth’s devotion to her child and courageous insistence on seeing the dead spider had greatly impressed them. They were curious now to see who would be chosen as king.
“Maybe it will be Finrod?” whispered Faramir. ”He seems a decent young fellow.”
“I would guess Pelendur,” said Aragorn. “These people prize fruitfulness highly and the young man will soon become a father.”
Borlach raised his hand for silence. “The choice of a king was much easier,” he said. “Surely this man was sent to us in our hour of need by the Valar, though, alas we were slow to see his true worth! Without his good counsel, there would be three less of us here to celebrate this day, while without the valour of this man and his son, a foul monster would still threaten our people. Master Morrandir of Minas Tirith shall be the King of our Harvest!”
The villagers cheered and clapped. Faramir leapt to his feet in joy and embraced his friend. Aragorn sat stunned for a moment unable to take it in. Vanreth smilingly approached him, her hand outstretched. ”They are waiting to crown us,” she said.
“Go, Ada, the people await their King!” cried Faramir, embracing his lord in delight.
Aragorn and Vanreth made their way to the platform. There, Tasariel awaited him, holding out a circlet of golden stonecrop entwined with ivy. Aragorn bent his head, allowing the healer to place the summer crown upon it. Tears pricked his eyes, as he rose and looked out upon the cheering faces. This meant far more to him than these people would ever know. They had chosen him as their King! This time it was not the heir of Elendil who had been chosen by right of birth, but Aragorn the man!
“Let the King and Queen perform the planting ceremony,” Borlach announced as Tasariel crowned Hareth with a circlet of the bell-shaped mallos blossoms, also golden, and leaves of clover.
At a gesture from the headman, two children, a boy and a girl, brought forth the two large corn dollies.
“The King will now bless the corn,” said Tasariel.
Aragorn could not resist a smile. He had often been asked to perform a similar office both as Chieftain and King. “ Gracious Yavanna, Queen of the Earth, Giver of Fruits,” he intoned. “We, thy children beseech thy blessing upon thy bounty. May the clouds yield forth rain and the earth bring forth fruit that they children may want not. We praise thy blessed name!”
The villagers looked rather surprised at such eloquence and chapped and cheered loudly.
The little girl reverently took a corn dolly to the barn, while the boy handed the other to Aragorn and Vanreth. The Harvest King and Queen carried it between them in solemn procession to the nearest field. Tasariel and Borlach led the way.
Faramir remembered a Westron hymn to Yavanna he had learned in his youth and started to sing. Many of the people knew the tune and joined in.
A deep and recently dug hole, surrounded by bunches of flowers, gouged the earth. It looked suspiciously like a grave. “Now is come time for the King and Queen to make the sacrifice on behalf of the people,” said Borlach in a slow, steady voice that carried across the crowd. Tasariel pulled a sharp knife out of a fine leather scabbard at her belt.
Faramir, who stood just behind Aragorn, looked alarmed. His hand went to his sword. “They cannot mean to kill you!” he whispered in horror.
Aragorn shook his head. ”Peace, son of my heart,” he whispered. “They have a similar custom in the North. It has its roots in an older, darker tradition, but I have never been any the worst for it!”
“They never made sacrifices at Dol Amroth!” Faramir protested. ”We scattered a handful of grain and that was all!”
Two other children, a boy and a girl on the edge between childhood and youth, came to take the corn dolly from Aragorn and Vanreth and held it in front of them. The young woman was already calmly baring her arm. Aragorn did likewise. Faramir stood quietly in a warrior's stance, legs slightly bent, hand gripping his sword-hilt, poised to defend his lord.
Tasariel raised the knife and with it made a very small cut in Aragorn’s forearm and then did the same to Vanreth. She raised their arms so that a drop of blood from each fell upon the corn dolly. ”The sacrifice is made! The land will bear fruit!” Tasariel cried.
The two youngsters reverently laid the corn dolly in the earth, while Tasariel bandaged the King and Queen’s arms.
“Long ago they would sacrifice a man and a maiden, or so Elrond told me,” Aragorn explained to Faramir. ”Now a few drops of blood suffice in remote country areas where the custom continues.”
All the villagers helped to cover the corn dolly with the rich dark soil. The people then returned to the village in a cheerful mood.
“The King and Queen of the harvest will now lead the dancing,” Borlach declared. A young man produced a reed pipe and played a merry tune.
Aragorn looked rather hesitantly at his “queen.” He only had one true Queen. As he thought of her, he was seized with a sudden longing that he had not felt in months. He hastily collected himself and turned his attention back to lady he must dance with now. He supposed Arwen would understand that that this was merely a custom of Lossarnach. After all, Aragorn had danced with Lothiriel, and Arwen with Éomer, at the wedding of the Lord of the Mark. And Vanreth's husband Finrod seemed to have no objection, the man was smiling as he held his young son in his arms. The little boy was fascinated by his mother’s crown of flowers and followed her with his eyes.
Aragorn faced the Harvest Queen with a small fire, bordered by stones, between them; a part of the festivities in both North and South. They bowed heads slightly, to show respect without loosening their crowns,. Then King and Queen clasped hands and trod the ancient measures of the Harvest Fire Dance, faster and faster to the quickening pipe notes, until they finished with a high leap over the fire. Aragorn and Vanreth stood apart, her left hand lightly holding his wrist, their other hands held high as if to entreat the sky. The villagers whistled and roared their approval.
Aragorn returned the somewhat flushed young woman to her husband. He was about to sit down when Tasariel approached him a gleam in her eye. “The Village Healer has the right to claim a dance with the King!” she said.
“It is my honour, Mistress,” replied Aragorn. They owed much to the lady and he felt it would be churlish to refuse her. He clasped Tasariel's weathered hand and joined the others in a slower version of the Harvest Fire Dance, dancing in a huge ring with the fire in its centre. Only the Harvest King and Queen were allowed to leap the fire, which would be extinguished before the night ended.
Faramir meanwhile danced with one of Thoron’s sisters, a girl of some fourteen years. The women had their pick, for after so many years of warfare, the fairer sex greatly outnumbered the menfolk. Many women either danced with one another or sat and watched. Faramir noticed the speculative glances given him and Aragorn by some of the widows and maidens. He was careful to treat each one as if she was his Aunt Ivriniel, who was a spirited and graceful dancer.
The music then changed to lighter, jollier rhythms. Groups of men and women formed lines and circles, thus ensuring no one was omitted, and began to step in and out with quick, merry kicks between linked hands. Despite weeks of exhausting labour in the fields, the villagers danced joyfully and seemed never to tire. Faramir noted that even the youngest of children, toddlers barely able to walk, merrily circled about in time to the music, their steps guided by older sisters and brothers. The older children danced with each other, save for a few of the twelve-year-olds, who were brought to dance with their adult kinfolk. Of all the young men, Thoron alone did not dance. The youth sat still, his injured leg propped up on a footstool. Borlach's eldest granddaughter, a lass of about eighteen summers, attended Thoron, bringing him wine with a soft smile. For once, Thoron looked content, and was seen to smile back at the pretty maiden more than once.
The dancing continued until sunset, circle and line dances yielding to the Flower land Reel that had been a favourite in Lossarnach since before Ecthelion's Stewardship. Tasariel insisted on a dance with Faramir, while Hareth danced with Aragorn. Then the men and older boys, bearing beribboned staffs, began the whirling turns of the Bucks' Dance.
The women and children left the men dancing, while they slipped away to bring out the food which they had taken turns to prepare since the morning. They laid it on the tables, keeping a watchful eye open to keep insects away.
Soon, three trestle tables were laden with platters and bowls. Faramir's mouth watered as he surveyed the fare: warm loaves of crusty bread, giant cheeses, mushrooms simmered in wine, carrot pudding dotted with dates and currants, and one of his own favourite dishes - "Dragon Eggs", eggs stuffed with cheese, raisins and herbs. And that was just the start! The women had also laid out river trout cooked in butter and parsley, rabbit in broth, chicken roasted with apples and chestnuts, and a stuffed roasted pig!
Aragorn took his seat at the head of one table with Vanreth at his side. Faramir was also given a place of honour together with Tasariel and Borlach. Tasariel insisted on heaping Faramir's plate with additional portions and encouraging him to eat, much to the amusement of her sons and daughter-in-law. Such kindness was welcome, though barely needed. Aragorn and Faramir ate until they thought they could eat no more; and quenched their thirst with the famed palegolden wine of Lossarnach. They loosened their belts as the tables were cleared. The women then brought seed cakes, pears soaked in wine and honey, and apple fritters fried in batter and cinnamon.
The company ate and drank and told tales until the full moon was high in the sky. From his days as Chieftain, Aragorn knew what was expected of him and glad he had kept a clear enough head to fulfil his duties. He rose to his feet. ”Gracious Yavanna, your bounty has blessed us abundantly tonight,” he said in a loud clear tone. “May Anor and Isil smile on our labours throughout our planting and reaping. May the land and her people be forever fruitful! May we sleep well tonight under Isil’s protection!”
The villagers clapped and cheered. Faramir heard one old woman say “How lordly Master Morrandir is, he is the best King we have had in many a year!” Tears welled up in Faramir's eyes even as he beamed with joy Little did these country-folk know how truly they spoke! He could only hope his reactions would be attributed to the wine.
Aragorn and Vanreth rose from the table to signal the end of the feast. The villagers slowly began to disperse.
“We thank you for your hospitality, ”said Aragorn to the Village Elders. ”You have made us most welcome.”
“The coming of you and your son has been a blessing,” said Borlach gravely. "Without your foresight and aid, Vanreth and her babe would have been buried untimely and suffered horrible deaths. And the evil thing that struck them would still live, to kill more of our livestock and our people!"
“And it is not every night I can dance with the King!” said Tasariel, still with a twinkle in her eye.
Aragorn and Faramir made their way to their favoured spot under the oak tree and spread out their bedrolls. Faramir was slow to settle and tossed restlessly.
“Whatever ails you? It is time to sleep!" Aragorn enquired rather tetchily.
“My stomach aches,” Faramir confessed, rubbing his stomach ruefully. ”I cannot get comfortable.”
“Little wonder given the amount you ate!” Aragorn replied. ”It seems Mistress Tasariel made good her word in feeding you up! Come here, then, and I will try to ease you.” He held his hands a few inches above Faramir's stomach.
Faramir, who simply expected Aragorn to use a gentle Elven healing touch, gave a cry of surprise at the amount of heat emanating from Aragorn’s hands. The pain in his belly swiftly subsided.
“What is the matter?” asked Aragorn.
“I have never known your healing power so strong!” Faramir exclaimed.
“I was again crowned King today,” said Aragorn thoughtfully. "I intend to preserve some of the flowers from my crown." He yawned loudly and settled under his blanket.
Soon, a gentle wind seemed to kiss the trees good night, leaving a hooting owl as the only creature to cry out under the heavens. King and Steward slept peacefully side by side, their sleeping forms illuminated by Isil’s gentle rays.
TBC
CO-AUTHOR'S NOTES: I was inspired in my conception of the villagers' circle dance by the descriptions in Wikipedia dot com, of the "horo", a Bulgarian dance with many patterns of diverse steps that can be danced in a circle or a curving line of people. I envisioned the Harvest Fire Dance as sort of a cross between a sword dance and parts of Stravinsky's Rite of Spring ballet (only without the human sacrifice at the end!).
The Flower land Reel is a dance of my own imagination; inspired by Tolkien's mentions of the flowers of Lossarnach. It is based loosely on the Virginia Reel, and much too complicated to describe in any detail. I'm not sure exactly what the Bucks' Dance is, except that men do it, is noisy and necessitates strength and skill, has some fertility implications, and probably involves twirling and thwacking of staffs.
The villagers' harvest feast menu is inspired, once again, by the descriptions and recipes at gode cookery dot com, a wonderful website for medieval and renaissance food.
Any errors or misconceptions about the dancing and country cuisine are of Raksha the Demon's devising, please don't blame Linda.
A/N. A very big thank you to everyone who reviewed the previous chapter. I am continuing to revise and rewrite “Shadow and Thought” on this site and would be interested to hear if you feel it has improved any.I have posted a new story “No Hope for Myself.” And there is a a new fun quiz about my stories on my LJ, which I invite you to try.
I hope my friends in the USA are enjoying their holiday. - Linda
Friday, August 01, 2008
A Daniel come to judgement
The characters are the property of the Tolkien Estate. No profit has been, nor will be made from this story.
A Daniel come to judgment! Yea, a Daniel!
O wise young judge, how I do honour thee! - The Merchant of Venice. Act 4.scene 1. Shakespeare.
With thanks to Deandra
Aragorn picked at his food morosely. He had little appetite for the delicious fare that the cooks had carefully prepared.
What is wrong, Estel?” Arwen enquired. “I have scarcely seen you all day and now you hardly say a word.”
“I am sorry, vanimelda,” said Aragorn. “My duties as King lie heavily upon me today.”
“Tell me what troubles your heart,” Arwen pleaded, once the servants had cleared away the plates. She poured two glasses of wine from the carafe on the table and handed one to her husband. The Queen moved over to the couch and beckoned her husband to sit beside her.
“You do not want to hear of the evil in Men’s hearts,” said Aragorn, tenderly caressing her cheek. “Alas, dark deeds did not end when Sauron was defeated!”
“You should not seek to protect me, Estel,” Arwen said firmly. “I have lived many years and seen all too many evils. Could any deeds be darker than the ordeal my mother endured? I was there when my brothers brought her home. I saw what the Orcs had done to her. I am your wife, sworn to share your joys and sorrows and help you to bear your troubles.” Tenderly she patted his hand.
Taking a deep breath, Aragorn told her the story of Ostopher and Melian. “How can I kill him, a good and honourable man?” he concluded. “Yet, the law says I must punish him as he refuses to speak in his defence.”
“In the North, a man has the right to avenge the honour of his kinswoman or betrothed,” Arwen said thoughtfully. “The poor girl, that she should be thus abused!”
“We are in Gondor, though, with its rigid laws and customs,” Aragorn replied. ”I believe young Ostopher acted rightly to avenge his lady’s honour, but the law sees him as a cold blooded killer whom I must punish.”
“You have the prerogative to exercise mercy,” Arwen reminded him.
“The mob would mostly likely tear Ostopher limb from limb if he walked free,” Aragorn said grimly. “A poor mercy that would be!”
“There are other ways to show clemency,” Arwen said. ”Did you not say the lad was a carpenter?”
“He is indeed, and according to Faramir, a good one.”
“We have great need of skilled craftsmen to rebuild Annuminas,” said Arwen. ”Why not exile him there? His sweetheart could go with him if she chooses. They could start their lives afresh in the North.”
“That is an excellent idea,oh wisest of Peredhil!” Aragorn exclaimed, embracing her warmly. ”The people of Gondor might even think that exile to the North was a crueller fate than death! As for Ostopher, I think he might be happy in Arnor.” The King looked pleadingly at his wife. ”I know I have neglected you today, dearest, but would it grieve you if I went to tell Ostopher that he will not be executed? He is confined here, within the Citadel.”
“Go with my blessing,” said Arwen. ”The boy will sleep better with the knowledge. I assume too, as you have become his Healer, you will wish to see how he is.”
“I shall not be gone long,” said Aragorn. Pausing only to place a tender kiss upon her lips and collect his healing supplies, he hastened to the detention chamber.
000
Looking far from happy at obeying his lord’s command to enter alone, the Guard opened the door of the detention chamber, then closed it as soon as the King had entered.
Aragorn quietly approached the bed where Ostopher lay sleeping. The young man was now clad in an ill fitting nightshirt. Ostopher was obviously exhausted not to have awakened when the King entered the room. Aragorn stood for a moment studying him. Ostopher’s face was tear stained, suggesting that once alone, he had wept again, either for his own plight, or that of his lady. In contrast to his appearance earlier that day, he now looked clean, and smelled strongly of soap.
Despite being propped up on several pillows, Ostopher’s breathing was rather laboured, suggesting his injuries were troubling him. Aragorn decided to awaken him.
“My lord!” Ostopher sat up with a start.
“Easy now,” said Aragorn. ”How do you fare?”
“Well enough, my lord,” the young carpenter replied, not very convincingly.
“Have you been treated well?” the King enquired.
“Yes, my lord. I was brought water to bathe in and food to eat. This bed is the most comfortable I have ever slept in.” Ostopher hesitated, then swallowed hard. “When I returned from bathing, this was all I had been left to wear. Do I have to go to my execution, dressed only in this? A man came to measure me, for my shroud, I think!”
Aragorn smiled at him. ”You were simply being measured for some suitable clothing. Prisoners are not hung wearing their night attire! Not that such details, need to be of any concern to you; you shall not go to the gallows, but rather to the North, where I have decided to exile you for the rest of your days. Your sweetheart is; of course, free to accompany you, if she so chooses. Dame Ioreth examined her and she confirms your story.”
Ostopher’s grey eyes lit up. He slid from the bed and knelt on the stone floor at Aragorn’s feet and clasping the King’s hands, kissed them fervently. “My lord, how can I ever thank you sufficiently for such mercy!” he exclaimed.
“I doubt you will feel much cause for gratitude during a long northern winter!” Aragorn replied dryly, raising him to his feet. ”However, I think you should prosper in Arnor. Your skills will be much in demand there, and you and Mistress Melian can start afresh away from wagging tongues and past sorrows. You must stay here for your own safety until you are able to travel. Everything will be provided for your needs. If you wish, you may walk in the gardens each day under escort and Mistress Melian may visit you. Now get back in bed, you need to rest.”
For a moment Ostopher looked at the King, completely overwhelmed with joy, before obediently doing as he was bidden. ”I can never thank you sufficiently!” he repeated. “Would it be allowed for me to have my carpenter’s tool’s brought here?” he asked after a moment’s thought. “I fear lest my skills have become rusty after so long without taking up hammer and chisel. Melian kept them safe for me after I was arrested.”
“I believe that can be arranged,” said Aragorn.
“Thank you, sire,” Ostopher suddenly coughed and his body contorted with pain.
Aragorn poured him some water from a jug on the bedside table and handed it to him. The King watched while the young man drank, and then offered, “I can ease your hurts further if you wish, but I would need you to reach out with your mind to accept the healing I offer, as one receives a gift.”
Ostopher hesitated for only a moment before saying. ”I would be grateful for your help, lord,” he said quietly. “What must I do?”
“Just slip your nightshirt off your shoulders so that I can see your hurts, then lie down. You will feel heat from my hands. Try to reach out towards me with your spirit.”
Ostopher obeyed and bared his bruises again, albeit still with a certain degree of reticence, though he showed none of his earlier terror. He closed his eyes and was aware of the King standing beside the bed, gently feeling his cracked rib. Suddenly, he felt a warmth flooding through every fibre of his bruised body. Startled he opened his eyes, and to his amazement saw the bruises grow less angry in appearance, even as he watched. The King seemed to grow weary looking as the power flowed from his hands.
“You will heal quickly now,” said Aragorn a few moments later. “It is time to rest and concentrate on regaining your strength. I am postponing your return before the court until you feel better and have something to wear. I bid you a restful night.” With that, he smiled kindly at Ostopher, then left the chamber.
Aragorn had intended to rejoin his wife as quickly as possible, but when he passed the door leading to Faramir’s apartments he decided that if he and Faramir were to work together in the harmony and friendship that he desired, he ought to tell his Steward what fate he had determined for Ostopher.
A servant led him to Faramir’s study. Although it was well past suppertime, the weary looking Steward was seated at his desk studying a scroll. He jumped to his feet when the King entered.
“There is no need to rise,” said Aragorn. “I came to tell you that I have found a way to show clemency to young Ostopher. I mean to exile him to the North for the rest of his days. The case seemed to be similar to that of Beregond.”
Faramir’s tired eyes lit up. ”Your justice combined with mercy does you great credit, my lord,” he said. “You have round a most reasonable solution to difficult circumstances, which gladdens my heart.”
“You look tired, Faramir,” said Aragorn. “Do not work too hard. Remember, I should like you to dine with the Queen and I one night.”
“You will wish to be alone with your bride, sire,” Faramir replied, looking
uncomfortable. “I would not intrude.”
“Happiness is to be shared,” said Aragorn. “I might rule here rather than you, but I would not have you feel excluded. I value your counsel highly. Today, your insights have been of great value in deciding this difficult case.”
“Thank you, sire.” Faramir coloured slightly.
“Goodnight then,” said Aragorn patting Faramir on the shoulder and wondering how long it would take before the Steward would be at ease with his new lord.
0000
Several days later Ostopher was again taken to court and sentenced to a lifetime of exile in the North for escaping from prison and killing Maglor. At the same time, he was formally exonerated of the attack on Findegil. Ostopher was forbidden on pain of death to ever enter Gondor again without the express permission of the King. Some of the people were outraged that he had escaped death for killing a Citadel Guard, while others were convinced that leaving Gondor was a far worse fate than the hangman’s noose! Aragorn took no chances and the young man was kept closely guarded.
Ioreth went to visit Melian again when her father was in his shop, both to tell her of Ostopher’s fate, and to see if the young woman was starting to heal in mind and body. The elderly Healer found her patient somewhat wearied by women’s courses, which did at least fully reassure the young woman that she could not be carrying Maglor’s child. The bruises on Melian’s body were fading. Her soul would, alas, take far longer to heal.
000
One day, early in August, Ostopher, flanked by two Guards, was taking his daily walk in the garden when a young woman approached him hesitantly. She looked pale, thin and drawn, but to Ostopher’s was the fairest lady that walked the earth. “Melian!” he cried.
“You may withdraw to give them some privacy,” Aragorn ordered the Guards. Together with his Queen; he had contrived to be present at this meeting. The Guards retreated, as did the King and Queen, to some distance away.
Ostopher and Melian approached each other rather tentatively. She hung her head and froze when he approached her. With a loving reverence Ostopher kissed her tenderly on the brow. A moment later, he was holding her in a loving embrace, as tenderly as one might hold a child.
“I think she will eventually heal with his help, though it may take a long time,” said Aragorn.
“Maybe I can help the poor girl with some of the Elven arts to soothe and cleanse mind and body that my father taught me?” said Arwen. “I have heard mortals are usually more resilient than the Eldar to such an ordeal as Melian has endured, but mortal woman do, I think, still suffer a great deal.”
“At least they have one another,” said Aragorn as the young couple approached them. ”I believe he will show her the patience and kindness that she needs to heal.”
“My lord, my lady, Melian still wishes to become my wife!” Ostopher said joyously. ”Her father has consented, though he refuses her a dowry, but we will somehow manage. I can work hard. Her two youngest sisters are coming north with us as there is no one else to care for them and they will keep her company while I am working.”
“I would be happy to join you both in wedlock,” said Aragorn.
Ostopher beamed, while Melian simply curtsied shyly.
0000
Three weeks later, at first light on the day they were due to depart, Aragorn joined Ostopher and Melian in wedlock beneath the White Tree. At such an early hour, there were no passers by. Only those who wished to witness the simple ceremony were clustered around the sapling. Melian’s sisters were all present, though not her father. The only other guests were Arwen, Faramir and Ioreth. Melian wore a simple, but exquisite blue gown, a gift from the Queen, who had befriended her.
“We shall forever be grateful to you for your kindness, sire,” Ostopher told Aragorn after the ceremony was concluded.
“I am glad that I trusted my heart and decided to find out the truth about you,” said Aragorn regarding the young couple fondly. In truth, he would quite miss Ostopher, having had many talks with the young carpenter during his confinement in the Citadel and from him had learned a good deal about the ordinary people of Minas Tirith, knowledge that would help him rule them wisely.
“May we write to you?” Ostopher asked rather shyly.
“The Queen and I would like that very much,” said Aragorn.
“There is something in my room I have made as a gift, which I hope you will accept, sire,” Ostopher continued. “I hope you will like it.”
“I am certain I shall,” Aragorn said tactfully, expecting something like a wooden practise sword of which he already had far too many. Now farewell, and go with my blessing!” He stooped and kissed Ostopher on the brow, while Arwen kissed Melian.
“May Elbereth light your journey!” said Arwen.
0000
Aragorn was kept occupied with royal duties throughout the rest of the day. As usual, he shifted uncomfortably on Denethor’s hideous chair. He was still working late that afternoon on plans for rebuilding the City, when a servant knocked on the door. “The Guard from the detention chamber found this with a note for you, my lord,” the man said.
“Let him enter!” said Aragorn.
The Guard entered carrying a chair. He put it down beside the King’s desk, bowed and left.
Aragorn studied the item of furniture. It was beautifully made of polished wood, the arms adorned with carvings of the White Tree. Pushing Denethor’s chair aside, he sat down in the new one. It was very comfortable, obviously the work of a master craftsman.
Aragorn sighed contentedly. Deciding the work could wait a little longer; he went in search of his Queen to show her his new treasure. As for Denethor’s chair, unless Faramir wanted it, it would make good firewood for the coming winter.
The End
The characters are the property of the Tolkien Estate. No profit has been, nor will be made from this story.
A Daniel come to judgment! Yea, a Daniel!
O wise young judge, how I do honour thee! - The Merchant of Venice. Act 4.scene 1. Shakespeare.
With thanks to Deandra
Aragorn picked at his food morosely. He had little appetite for the delicious fare that the cooks had carefully prepared.
What is wrong, Estel?” Arwen enquired. “I have scarcely seen you all day and now you hardly say a word.”
“I am sorry, vanimelda,” said Aragorn. “My duties as King lie heavily upon me today.”
“Tell me what troubles your heart,” Arwen pleaded, once the servants had cleared away the plates. She poured two glasses of wine from the carafe on the table and handed one to her husband. The Queen moved over to the couch and beckoned her husband to sit beside her.
“You do not want to hear of the evil in Men’s hearts,” said Aragorn, tenderly caressing her cheek. “Alas, dark deeds did not end when Sauron was defeated!”
“You should not seek to protect me, Estel,” Arwen said firmly. “I have lived many years and seen all too many evils. Could any deeds be darker than the ordeal my mother endured? I was there when my brothers brought her home. I saw what the Orcs had done to her. I am your wife, sworn to share your joys and sorrows and help you to bear your troubles.” Tenderly she patted his hand.
Taking a deep breath, Aragorn told her the story of Ostopher and Melian. “How can I kill him, a good and honourable man?” he concluded. “Yet, the law says I must punish him as he refuses to speak in his defence.”
“In the North, a man has the right to avenge the honour of his kinswoman or betrothed,” Arwen said thoughtfully. “The poor girl, that she should be thus abused!”
“We are in Gondor, though, with its rigid laws and customs,” Aragorn replied. ”I believe young Ostopher acted rightly to avenge his lady’s honour, but the law sees him as a cold blooded killer whom I must punish.”
“You have the prerogative to exercise mercy,” Arwen reminded him.
“The mob would mostly likely tear Ostopher limb from limb if he walked free,” Aragorn said grimly. “A poor mercy that would be!”
“There are other ways to show clemency,” Arwen said. ”Did you not say the lad was a carpenter?”
“He is indeed, and according to Faramir, a good one.”
“We have great need of skilled craftsmen to rebuild Annuminas,” said Arwen. ”Why not exile him there? His sweetheart could go with him if she chooses. They could start their lives afresh in the North.”
“That is an excellent idea,oh wisest of Peredhil!” Aragorn exclaimed, embracing her warmly. ”The people of Gondor might even think that exile to the North was a crueller fate than death! As for Ostopher, I think he might be happy in Arnor.” The King looked pleadingly at his wife. ”I know I have neglected you today, dearest, but would it grieve you if I went to tell Ostopher that he will not be executed? He is confined here, within the Citadel.”
“Go with my blessing,” said Arwen. ”The boy will sleep better with the knowledge. I assume too, as you have become his Healer, you will wish to see how he is.”
“I shall not be gone long,” said Aragorn. Pausing only to place a tender kiss upon her lips and collect his healing supplies, he hastened to the detention chamber.
000
Looking far from happy at obeying his lord’s command to enter alone, the Guard opened the door of the detention chamber, then closed it as soon as the King had entered.
Aragorn quietly approached the bed where Ostopher lay sleeping. The young man was now clad in an ill fitting nightshirt. Ostopher was obviously exhausted not to have awakened when the King entered the room. Aragorn stood for a moment studying him. Ostopher’s face was tear stained, suggesting that once alone, he had wept again, either for his own plight, or that of his lady. In contrast to his appearance earlier that day, he now looked clean, and smelled strongly of soap.
Despite being propped up on several pillows, Ostopher’s breathing was rather laboured, suggesting his injuries were troubling him. Aragorn decided to awaken him.
“My lord!” Ostopher sat up with a start.
“Easy now,” said Aragorn. ”How do you fare?”
“Well enough, my lord,” the young carpenter replied, not very convincingly.
“Have you been treated well?” the King enquired.
“Yes, my lord. I was brought water to bathe in and food to eat. This bed is the most comfortable I have ever slept in.” Ostopher hesitated, then swallowed hard. “When I returned from bathing, this was all I had been left to wear. Do I have to go to my execution, dressed only in this? A man came to measure me, for my shroud, I think!”
Aragorn smiled at him. ”You were simply being measured for some suitable clothing. Prisoners are not hung wearing their night attire! Not that such details, need to be of any concern to you; you shall not go to the gallows, but rather to the North, where I have decided to exile you for the rest of your days. Your sweetheart is; of course, free to accompany you, if she so chooses. Dame Ioreth examined her and she confirms your story.”
Ostopher’s grey eyes lit up. He slid from the bed and knelt on the stone floor at Aragorn’s feet and clasping the King’s hands, kissed them fervently. “My lord, how can I ever thank you sufficiently for such mercy!” he exclaimed.
“I doubt you will feel much cause for gratitude during a long northern winter!” Aragorn replied dryly, raising him to his feet. ”However, I think you should prosper in Arnor. Your skills will be much in demand there, and you and Mistress Melian can start afresh away from wagging tongues and past sorrows. You must stay here for your own safety until you are able to travel. Everything will be provided for your needs. If you wish, you may walk in the gardens each day under escort and Mistress Melian may visit you. Now get back in bed, you need to rest.”
For a moment Ostopher looked at the King, completely overwhelmed with joy, before obediently doing as he was bidden. ”I can never thank you sufficiently!” he repeated. “Would it be allowed for me to have my carpenter’s tool’s brought here?” he asked after a moment’s thought. “I fear lest my skills have become rusty after so long without taking up hammer and chisel. Melian kept them safe for me after I was arrested.”
“I believe that can be arranged,” said Aragorn.
“Thank you, sire,” Ostopher suddenly coughed and his body contorted with pain.
Aragorn poured him some water from a jug on the bedside table and handed it to him. The King watched while the young man drank, and then offered, “I can ease your hurts further if you wish, but I would need you to reach out with your mind to accept the healing I offer, as one receives a gift.”
Ostopher hesitated for only a moment before saying. ”I would be grateful for your help, lord,” he said quietly. “What must I do?”
“Just slip your nightshirt off your shoulders so that I can see your hurts, then lie down. You will feel heat from my hands. Try to reach out towards me with your spirit.”
Ostopher obeyed and bared his bruises again, albeit still with a certain degree of reticence, though he showed none of his earlier terror. He closed his eyes and was aware of the King standing beside the bed, gently feeling his cracked rib. Suddenly, he felt a warmth flooding through every fibre of his bruised body. Startled he opened his eyes, and to his amazement saw the bruises grow less angry in appearance, even as he watched. The King seemed to grow weary looking as the power flowed from his hands.
“You will heal quickly now,” said Aragorn a few moments later. “It is time to rest and concentrate on regaining your strength. I am postponing your return before the court until you feel better and have something to wear. I bid you a restful night.” With that, he smiled kindly at Ostopher, then left the chamber.
Aragorn had intended to rejoin his wife as quickly as possible, but when he passed the door leading to Faramir’s apartments he decided that if he and Faramir were to work together in the harmony and friendship that he desired, he ought to tell his Steward what fate he had determined for Ostopher.
A servant led him to Faramir’s study. Although it was well past suppertime, the weary looking Steward was seated at his desk studying a scroll. He jumped to his feet when the King entered.
“There is no need to rise,” said Aragorn. “I came to tell you that I have found a way to show clemency to young Ostopher. I mean to exile him to the North for the rest of his days. The case seemed to be similar to that of Beregond.”
Faramir’s tired eyes lit up. ”Your justice combined with mercy does you great credit, my lord,” he said. “You have round a most reasonable solution to difficult circumstances, which gladdens my heart.”
“You look tired, Faramir,” said Aragorn. “Do not work too hard. Remember, I should like you to dine with the Queen and I one night.”
“You will wish to be alone with your bride, sire,” Faramir replied, looking
uncomfortable. “I would not intrude.”
“Happiness is to be shared,” said Aragorn. “I might rule here rather than you, but I would not have you feel excluded. I value your counsel highly. Today, your insights have been of great value in deciding this difficult case.”
“Thank you, sire.” Faramir coloured slightly.
“Goodnight then,” said Aragorn patting Faramir on the shoulder and wondering how long it would take before the Steward would be at ease with his new lord.
0000
Several days later Ostopher was again taken to court and sentenced to a lifetime of exile in the North for escaping from prison and killing Maglor. At the same time, he was formally exonerated of the attack on Findegil. Ostopher was forbidden on pain of death to ever enter Gondor again without the express permission of the King. Some of the people were outraged that he had escaped death for killing a Citadel Guard, while others were convinced that leaving Gondor was a far worse fate than the hangman’s noose! Aragorn took no chances and the young man was kept closely guarded.
Ioreth went to visit Melian again when her father was in his shop, both to tell her of Ostopher’s fate, and to see if the young woman was starting to heal in mind and body. The elderly Healer found her patient somewhat wearied by women’s courses, which did at least fully reassure the young woman that she could not be carrying Maglor’s child. The bruises on Melian’s body were fading. Her soul would, alas, take far longer to heal.
000
One day, early in August, Ostopher, flanked by two Guards, was taking his daily walk in the garden when a young woman approached him hesitantly. She looked pale, thin and drawn, but to Ostopher’s was the fairest lady that walked the earth. “Melian!” he cried.
“You may withdraw to give them some privacy,” Aragorn ordered the Guards. Together with his Queen; he had contrived to be present at this meeting. The Guards retreated, as did the King and Queen, to some distance away.
Ostopher and Melian approached each other rather tentatively. She hung her head and froze when he approached her. With a loving reverence Ostopher kissed her tenderly on the brow. A moment later, he was holding her in a loving embrace, as tenderly as one might hold a child.
“I think she will eventually heal with his help, though it may take a long time,” said Aragorn.
“Maybe I can help the poor girl with some of the Elven arts to soothe and cleanse mind and body that my father taught me?” said Arwen. “I have heard mortals are usually more resilient than the Eldar to such an ordeal as Melian has endured, but mortal woman do, I think, still suffer a great deal.”
“At least they have one another,” said Aragorn as the young couple approached them. ”I believe he will show her the patience and kindness that she needs to heal.”
“My lord, my lady, Melian still wishes to become my wife!” Ostopher said joyously. ”Her father has consented, though he refuses her a dowry, but we will somehow manage. I can work hard. Her two youngest sisters are coming north with us as there is no one else to care for them and they will keep her company while I am working.”
“I would be happy to join you both in wedlock,” said Aragorn.
Ostopher beamed, while Melian simply curtsied shyly.
0000
Three weeks later, at first light on the day they were due to depart, Aragorn joined Ostopher and Melian in wedlock beneath the White Tree. At such an early hour, there were no passers by. Only those who wished to witness the simple ceremony were clustered around the sapling. Melian’s sisters were all present, though not her father. The only other guests were Arwen, Faramir and Ioreth. Melian wore a simple, but exquisite blue gown, a gift from the Queen, who had befriended her.
“We shall forever be grateful to you for your kindness, sire,” Ostopher told Aragorn after the ceremony was concluded.
“I am glad that I trusted my heart and decided to find out the truth about you,” said Aragorn regarding the young couple fondly. In truth, he would quite miss Ostopher, having had many talks with the young carpenter during his confinement in the Citadel and from him had learned a good deal about the ordinary people of Minas Tirith, knowledge that would help him rule them wisely.
“May we write to you?” Ostopher asked rather shyly.
“The Queen and I would like that very much,” said Aragorn.
“There is something in my room I have made as a gift, which I hope you will accept, sire,” Ostopher continued. “I hope you will like it.”
“I am certain I shall,” Aragorn said tactfully, expecting something like a wooden practise sword of which he already had far too many. Now farewell, and go with my blessing!” He stooped and kissed Ostopher on the brow, while Arwen kissed Melian.
“May Elbereth light your journey!” said Arwen.
0000
Aragorn was kept occupied with royal duties throughout the rest of the day. As usual, he shifted uncomfortably on Denethor’s hideous chair. He was still working late that afternoon on plans for rebuilding the City, when a servant knocked on the door. “The Guard from the detention chamber found this with a note for you, my lord,” the man said.
“Let him enter!” said Aragorn.
The Guard entered carrying a chair. He put it down beside the King’s desk, bowed and left.
Aragorn studied the item of furniture. It was beautifully made of polished wood, the arms adorned with carvings of the White Tree. Pushing Denethor’s chair aside, he sat down in the new one. It was very comfortable, obviously the work of a master craftsman.
Aragorn sighed contentedly. Deciding the work could wait a little longer; he went in search of his Queen to show her his new treasure. As for Denethor’s chair, unless Faramir wanted it, it would make good firewood for the coming winter.
The End
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