Following Your Footsteps
Summary: After Aragorn's death, his daughter and Legolas's son retrace the path of their fathers.
Disclaimer: I do not own Lord of the Rings or any recognizable characters or places. (my characters thus far: Gaven, Aralya, Mica, and Bjourn)
Rating: PG-13, just to be safe
*****
I try not to let the tears come, clouding my vision. I don't want to waste one more second of my life with him. Bjourn is crying beside me, and suddenly I feel like a big sister again, even though Bjourn is seventy six years old herself. Eldarion stands beside me, and he is not crying, either, but standing in all his glory, ready to be crowned King.
I would pause and reflect on my own chosen path, but there will be time for that later. Now I will savor my last moments with my father, before he passes to the halls of his ancestry. "Aralya," he says, so softly that only I can hear. "You were always something special."
I tilt my chin up to meet his gaze. "Then stay," I whisper back. "You still have time left." Even as I say it, I know what he will say, and I do understand that time there may be yet, but not time for him.
"You'll understand someday. Even if none of the others do, you will know," he tells me. "Be brave. You have your life ahead of you."
"I will," I promise. "And I will never forget you, ever."
"I know," he says, and he kisses my forehead, then steps back, and speaks to my brother. I could listen to his words, but I do not. My heart aches, and my breathing is ragged though silent. I can hardly bear it as my father lies down, and in moments is gone from this world. It seems too short, too unreal, and I want to cry now, to be hysterical with tears, but I'm too old for that, there are others who need me now.
"It can't be real," Bjourn whispers, "it just can't!" At her feet, her six- year-old child, Mica, sobs, but Bjourn will do nothing, she is too distraught. I kneel down and lift Mica into my arms before she can begin howling.
"Don't cry, Mica," I say softly. "It'll be all right." How I envy her! I wish I could cry, have a fit, but I cannot. Mica buries her head in the fabric of my dress, and I rub her back. In minutes her sobs have stopped, and I set her back on the ground. I look around, hardly able to believe that we are all still here, in the House of Kings, surrounded by death.
There are not many of us now. Gimli, the Dwarf, is crying, he seems almost angry. Legolas Greenleaf, the Elf, is consoling him, near tears himself. My brothers, Eldarion and Boromir, speak to each other, Eldarion crying without sobs, tears running down his face in silence. Boromir has kept without tears, as have I. Bjourn, and Mica, both are weeping, but there is one whose sorrow goes beyond tears.
I know what she will do now, I can see that this place holds far too many memories for her. "Mother," I say softly, drawing my arms around her. She submits to my hug, but does not return it. Arwen Undomiel was once the most beautiful woman in all the lands, and still she is, but sadness marks her. "He had to, it was time," I hope she understands, but I do not think she does.
"This place is filled with death," she whispers. She does not find the same comfort as I do with the souls of those who have gone on.
"It is filled with hope," I say, though I know this to be untrue. Gondor has had its glory days, and my father ruled at the height of its splendor, and that may be sustained for a time, then my people will slowly vanish. I try not to think about this. I look to Eldarion, silently pleading, 'Do something! Do not let them remain here so mournful!'
He does not see my look. He will do nothing? Then I must act. "Come," I say. It comes out strangled and choked. I clear my throat and say again, "Come! Friends and family of my father, let us leave this place. He would not wish us to stay here, mourning for him." I turn, swallowing, trying hard not to pause or to cry. Truly, this is what he would have wanted. I walk out into the sunshine.
Birds sing out of doors. The sky is blue, subtly deepening as it goes, lightest at the edges, and so bright I cannot look at it straight-on for very long. The sun is at its peak, and no clouds show their faces. How can it be so? How is the day, this awful day, so cheerful? I try to ignore it, walking softly along the road. No one speaks on the street, no human noise prevails over the wind and the birds.
Somehow I make my way back to my room. Behind me, I do not bother to shut the door. I care not who looks in on me as I change into my nightclothes, though it is noon, and half-crawl into bed, exhausted. My eyes close in sleep, and then the tears come, tears enough to drown the world.
Summary: After Aragorn's death, his daughter and Legolas's son retrace the path of their fathers.
Disclaimer: I do not own Lord of the Rings or any recognizable characters or places. (my characters thus far: Gaven, Aralya, Mica, and Bjourn)
Rating: PG-13, just to be safe
*****
I try not to let the tears come, clouding my vision. I don't want to waste one more second of my life with him. Bjourn is crying beside me, and suddenly I feel like a big sister again, even though Bjourn is seventy six years old herself. Eldarion stands beside me, and he is not crying, either, but standing in all his glory, ready to be crowned King.
I would pause and reflect on my own chosen path, but there will be time for that later. Now I will savor my last moments with my father, before he passes to the halls of his ancestry. "Aralya," he says, so softly that only I can hear. "You were always something special."
I tilt my chin up to meet his gaze. "Then stay," I whisper back. "You still have time left." Even as I say it, I know what he will say, and I do understand that time there may be yet, but not time for him.
"You'll understand someday. Even if none of the others do, you will know," he tells me. "Be brave. You have your life ahead of you."
"I will," I promise. "And I will never forget you, ever."
"I know," he says, and he kisses my forehead, then steps back, and speaks to my brother. I could listen to his words, but I do not. My heart aches, and my breathing is ragged though silent. I can hardly bear it as my father lies down, and in moments is gone from this world. It seems too short, too unreal, and I want to cry now, to be hysterical with tears, but I'm too old for that, there are others who need me now.
"It can't be real," Bjourn whispers, "it just can't!" At her feet, her six- year-old child, Mica, sobs, but Bjourn will do nothing, she is too distraught. I kneel down and lift Mica into my arms before she can begin howling.
"Don't cry, Mica," I say softly. "It'll be all right." How I envy her! I wish I could cry, have a fit, but I cannot. Mica buries her head in the fabric of my dress, and I rub her back. In minutes her sobs have stopped, and I set her back on the ground. I look around, hardly able to believe that we are all still here, in the House of Kings, surrounded by death.
There are not many of us now. Gimli, the Dwarf, is crying, he seems almost angry. Legolas Greenleaf, the Elf, is consoling him, near tears himself. My brothers, Eldarion and Boromir, speak to each other, Eldarion crying without sobs, tears running down his face in silence. Boromir has kept without tears, as have I. Bjourn, and Mica, both are weeping, but there is one whose sorrow goes beyond tears.
I know what she will do now, I can see that this place holds far too many memories for her. "Mother," I say softly, drawing my arms around her. She submits to my hug, but does not return it. Arwen Undomiel was once the most beautiful woman in all the lands, and still she is, but sadness marks her. "He had to, it was time," I hope she understands, but I do not think she does.
"This place is filled with death," she whispers. She does not find the same comfort as I do with the souls of those who have gone on.
"It is filled with hope," I say, though I know this to be untrue. Gondor has had its glory days, and my father ruled at the height of its splendor, and that may be sustained for a time, then my people will slowly vanish. I try not to think about this. I look to Eldarion, silently pleading, 'Do something! Do not let them remain here so mournful!'
He does not see my look. He will do nothing? Then I must act. "Come," I say. It comes out strangled and choked. I clear my throat and say again, "Come! Friends and family of my father, let us leave this place. He would not wish us to stay here, mourning for him." I turn, swallowing, trying hard not to pause or to cry. Truly, this is what he would have wanted. I walk out into the sunshine.
Birds sing out of doors. The sky is blue, subtly deepening as it goes, lightest at the edges, and so bright I cannot look at it straight-on for very long. The sun is at its peak, and no clouds show their faces. How can it be so? How is the day, this awful day, so cheerful? I try to ignore it, walking softly along the road. No one speaks on the street, no human noise prevails over the wind and the birds.
Somehow I make my way back to my room. Behind me, I do not bother to shut the door. I care not who looks in on me as I change into my nightclothes, though it is noon, and half-crawl into bed, exhausted. My eyes close in sleep, and then the tears come, tears enough to drown the world.