Authors Note: A one part vignette, no sequels or additional chapters are
planned.
Being Second Best
She was doing it again. I saw as I stood beside her, and although she tried to hide it by bowing her head she could do nothing to mask such an expression, for once my eyes were rested upon her I could not move them away again. Such a small thing, almost unnoticeable, if I had not been looking for it I would not have seen. Her cheeks were flushed, and a tinge of pink lingered under her eyes as if someone had run their thumb lightly over her skin. Her eyes were brighter too, opened slightly too wide but sparkling as if they were holding tears ready to fall. Her mouth was smiling, rosy lips curving upwards, yet the smile did not reach her eyes.
Never had I seen so many human emotions written on one woman's face. Embarrassed were her cheeks, they made her seem shy and somewhat innocent, although that was not always true of her. Her eyes widened as if they were trying their hardest to please, though if you were to look further you would see a deep sadness rooted inside of her. And her lips that were happily smiling were trying to neutralise her face, to give her a façade of contentedness, of comfort.
This face, this expression that I oddly had come to resent, appeared when she looked into the eyes of one man. Oh, how I sometimes wished that the man was me, I wished that I could affect her like he did. I knew that she had loved him, lusted over him, desired nothing more than to be with him. She told me that those feelings had flown from her, vanished and melted like snow in the spring sunshine. But how can such intense emotions disappear, leaving no trace or scar behind? She promised me, looked me in the eye and said that she did not love him; it was me that she loved. I tried to believe her, I wanted with all my heart for it to be true. But moments like these, when I see her face as she looks at his, I know that there is some part of her that still desires him, that is still in love with him.
I love her with all my heart. Ever since I saw her I thought her beautiful, and so strong, yet it was as if she were encased in ice that no man could break. I had wanted to take her into my arms and hold her until the ice washed away and she were warm again. But she did not want pity, not from anyone. Just looking upon her when she stood on the walls of Minas Tirith made my heart ache, I could see the pain of death etched upon her face and I wanted to be with her more than anything I had ever known. Then I kissed her and she kissed me back, and at last I thought that I found someone who loved me over all others.
That can never be. She is strong, blood of Kings runs in her veins, akin to the blood that runs in Aragorn's. It does not run in me, and I am bitterly reminded that I am just a Steward, and I never could be a King. But the Stewards were like Kings, ruling over the city in their stead for hundreds of years. I have a high position in the city, but not the highest. Sometimes I am reminded that it should not be me there at all. The place of Steward rightly belongs to my brother.
Boromir was always better than me, and my father liked nothing more than to remind me of it. He was a better fighter, a better leader and a better man. He was the handsome one, he was taller and stronger and always well liked. But I still loved him. I looked up to him and when I was younger I copied everything he did until my father put a stop to it. When we grew older we stayed fast friends, it felt nice to have someone on my side. He stuck up for me stubbornly, arguing my case but my father would not listen. If ever anything good happened, in his eyes Boromir was behind it. If anything bad occurred it was instantly my fault. My studies were pointless, I was told time after time. The work that I was good at, perhaps better than Boromir, was of no use to me. I knew the truth; my father just hated me excelling at anything, he hated me being better than Boromir, the son he loved the most.
I tried so hard to please him; I went out of my way. I found it rather ironic that only when I was thought dead he suddenly decided to care for me, just a little bit. But still his main concern was that his line of Stewards had ended. He was bitter and cold, yet I still mourn him.
And I thought that at last I was first, in my wife's eyes at least I would be alone and unchallenged. But the shadow of the King looms over me, and I cannot escape it.
Aragorn is like me in so many ways. We have been alone; things have been dark for both of us. But when he became triumphant over his demons his rewards were greater. I am not ungrateful for what I have, my office as Steward remains, yet I am still not happy. I rule under him, an altogether lesser man than the King.
But now, as Éowyn and I stand before him and he greets us in the fitting way, I look at her and see something hiding under her skin, something which she denies yet I know still exists. Her love for him still lives on, a little spark or flame inside of her which has not yet, and perhaps never will, go out. I watch her now, dipping in a curtsey, one hand resting upon the folds of her dress. He reaches out for her hand and kisses it, and I see the pinkness in her cheeks again. I feel a sudden pang in my heart as I look at them, as if I am on one side of a glass wall and they are on the other. I wish that Éowyn could feel the same longing for me that she once felt, and still does, for the King.
We are comfortable together. I am content with our relationship, as long as I lock my feelings that cause me grief away tightly at the back of my mind. Only at times like these do they escape and haunt me, and I wonder about what might happen. If she could choose, and we were both stood in front of her, who would she go to? That questions burns at my head and troubles me when I am foolish enough to let it. I know that the answer will never be mine, yet I still fear it. Aragorn has a wife, the beautiful lady Arwen. Men call her the elf queen, the beauty of the city. I wonder if Éowyn is jealous of her. Once I saw her gaze rather longingly at them as they danced, head in her hands and a small sigh escaping her lips. I had asked her what the matter was, but she had only smiled and shook her head. I would never ask for a wife such as Arwen. But still, perhaps I look for things that I can never have. I want to care for Éowyn and look after her, but that is not what she wants. Sometimes she does not let her pain show, and I feel as if she is a distance from me. When she is sad she will not come to me, she stands outside and looks at the sky. I do not know what to do when that happens. I want to gather her in my arms and tell her things will be all right, but that is not what she wants. Sometimes it is her comforting me, and although it eases me to feel her hand on my shoulder I wish that she would let me do the same for her. Sometimes I feel as if she is spinning above me, beautiful blonde hair flying about her and her face laughing, as I am left on the ground alone. I long to be with her, but she will not let me.
Still, I am content. I have been second best to all I have known, and it is not my place to be put first. I will dwell no longer on my troubles, for my life is good and I must not complain.
Later that night, when Éowyn and I were sleeping I felt her move beside me, and I turned my head towards her. Her brow was creased slightly though her eyes were closed, and her face looked troubled. I wondered what she was dreaming about. She looked lost, almost afraid. I waited for a moment, then gently stroked her hair away from her face. She shifted again in her sleep and her mouth twitched in a small smile. Then she relaxed and her face was peaceful again. I tenderly put my arm around her and drew her closer to me. She breathed out and snuggled into my chest, and I softly stroked her forehead as I pulled the sheets over her. I saw her mouth open a little, as if she were trying to speak. It was only a whisper that I heard, scarcely more than a breath, one quiet word spoken from the depths of slumber.
"Aragorn"
I felt cold. The one word, one name spoken in a moment of carelessness that caused me such pain. She reached out towards me and slid her arm around my waist, then relaxed and was once again in a deep sleep. But I lay awake, staring into the darkness with a feeling of immense sadness weighing down onto me. I knew that I would never be able to take comfort in her embrace again. I wondered what dream was lingering on in her mind.
I did not sleep that night. She lay, unmoving and breathing softly, and I could feel her warm weight beside me as the cold light of dawn crept into our room. Then, as the sunlight danced quietly on her pale skin she moved, and her eyes slowly opened. She saw me looking at her and smiled. I tried to smile back. She laid her head back on the pillow, and I watched as she dozed. My eyes felt heavy, at first I thought that it was with tiredness, but then I knew that they were filling with tears. I had not cried since I was a child. My father did not hold with it. "Real men do not weep." They grew in my eyes, and I was powerless, or maybe I did not want to stop them. One fell; I felt it on my cheek and took some kind of strange pleasure from the sensation as the warm drop slid to my chin, leaving a shimmering trail in its wake. Yet I still felt numb, and the tears did not take hold of me, instead I felt as if I were a distance away and the only thing I could feel were the tears, falling from my eyes onto the bed sheets like soft rain. I looked to my wife. So calm and peaceful, yet I wished that she would wake. I was alone, and I looked to her. But she was sleeping, and still the tears fell, now bitter and cold. I let out a sudden sob that cut through my body like a knife, but she did not move, her face was silent, and still she slept.
*-*
Being Second Best
She was doing it again. I saw as I stood beside her, and although she tried to hide it by bowing her head she could do nothing to mask such an expression, for once my eyes were rested upon her I could not move them away again. Such a small thing, almost unnoticeable, if I had not been looking for it I would not have seen. Her cheeks were flushed, and a tinge of pink lingered under her eyes as if someone had run their thumb lightly over her skin. Her eyes were brighter too, opened slightly too wide but sparkling as if they were holding tears ready to fall. Her mouth was smiling, rosy lips curving upwards, yet the smile did not reach her eyes.
Never had I seen so many human emotions written on one woman's face. Embarrassed were her cheeks, they made her seem shy and somewhat innocent, although that was not always true of her. Her eyes widened as if they were trying their hardest to please, though if you were to look further you would see a deep sadness rooted inside of her. And her lips that were happily smiling were trying to neutralise her face, to give her a façade of contentedness, of comfort.
This face, this expression that I oddly had come to resent, appeared when she looked into the eyes of one man. Oh, how I sometimes wished that the man was me, I wished that I could affect her like he did. I knew that she had loved him, lusted over him, desired nothing more than to be with him. She told me that those feelings had flown from her, vanished and melted like snow in the spring sunshine. But how can such intense emotions disappear, leaving no trace or scar behind? She promised me, looked me in the eye and said that she did not love him; it was me that she loved. I tried to believe her, I wanted with all my heart for it to be true. But moments like these, when I see her face as she looks at his, I know that there is some part of her that still desires him, that is still in love with him.
I love her with all my heart. Ever since I saw her I thought her beautiful, and so strong, yet it was as if she were encased in ice that no man could break. I had wanted to take her into my arms and hold her until the ice washed away and she were warm again. But she did not want pity, not from anyone. Just looking upon her when she stood on the walls of Minas Tirith made my heart ache, I could see the pain of death etched upon her face and I wanted to be with her more than anything I had ever known. Then I kissed her and she kissed me back, and at last I thought that I found someone who loved me over all others.
That can never be. She is strong, blood of Kings runs in her veins, akin to the blood that runs in Aragorn's. It does not run in me, and I am bitterly reminded that I am just a Steward, and I never could be a King. But the Stewards were like Kings, ruling over the city in their stead for hundreds of years. I have a high position in the city, but not the highest. Sometimes I am reminded that it should not be me there at all. The place of Steward rightly belongs to my brother.
Boromir was always better than me, and my father liked nothing more than to remind me of it. He was a better fighter, a better leader and a better man. He was the handsome one, he was taller and stronger and always well liked. But I still loved him. I looked up to him and when I was younger I copied everything he did until my father put a stop to it. When we grew older we stayed fast friends, it felt nice to have someone on my side. He stuck up for me stubbornly, arguing my case but my father would not listen. If ever anything good happened, in his eyes Boromir was behind it. If anything bad occurred it was instantly my fault. My studies were pointless, I was told time after time. The work that I was good at, perhaps better than Boromir, was of no use to me. I knew the truth; my father just hated me excelling at anything, he hated me being better than Boromir, the son he loved the most.
I tried so hard to please him; I went out of my way. I found it rather ironic that only when I was thought dead he suddenly decided to care for me, just a little bit. But still his main concern was that his line of Stewards had ended. He was bitter and cold, yet I still mourn him.
And I thought that at last I was first, in my wife's eyes at least I would be alone and unchallenged. But the shadow of the King looms over me, and I cannot escape it.
Aragorn is like me in so many ways. We have been alone; things have been dark for both of us. But when he became triumphant over his demons his rewards were greater. I am not ungrateful for what I have, my office as Steward remains, yet I am still not happy. I rule under him, an altogether lesser man than the King.
But now, as Éowyn and I stand before him and he greets us in the fitting way, I look at her and see something hiding under her skin, something which she denies yet I know still exists. Her love for him still lives on, a little spark or flame inside of her which has not yet, and perhaps never will, go out. I watch her now, dipping in a curtsey, one hand resting upon the folds of her dress. He reaches out for her hand and kisses it, and I see the pinkness in her cheeks again. I feel a sudden pang in my heart as I look at them, as if I am on one side of a glass wall and they are on the other. I wish that Éowyn could feel the same longing for me that she once felt, and still does, for the King.
We are comfortable together. I am content with our relationship, as long as I lock my feelings that cause me grief away tightly at the back of my mind. Only at times like these do they escape and haunt me, and I wonder about what might happen. If she could choose, and we were both stood in front of her, who would she go to? That questions burns at my head and troubles me when I am foolish enough to let it. I know that the answer will never be mine, yet I still fear it. Aragorn has a wife, the beautiful lady Arwen. Men call her the elf queen, the beauty of the city. I wonder if Éowyn is jealous of her. Once I saw her gaze rather longingly at them as they danced, head in her hands and a small sigh escaping her lips. I had asked her what the matter was, but she had only smiled and shook her head. I would never ask for a wife such as Arwen. But still, perhaps I look for things that I can never have. I want to care for Éowyn and look after her, but that is not what she wants. Sometimes she does not let her pain show, and I feel as if she is a distance from me. When she is sad she will not come to me, she stands outside and looks at the sky. I do not know what to do when that happens. I want to gather her in my arms and tell her things will be all right, but that is not what she wants. Sometimes it is her comforting me, and although it eases me to feel her hand on my shoulder I wish that she would let me do the same for her. Sometimes I feel as if she is spinning above me, beautiful blonde hair flying about her and her face laughing, as I am left on the ground alone. I long to be with her, but she will not let me.
Still, I am content. I have been second best to all I have known, and it is not my place to be put first. I will dwell no longer on my troubles, for my life is good and I must not complain.
Later that night, when Éowyn and I were sleeping I felt her move beside me, and I turned my head towards her. Her brow was creased slightly though her eyes were closed, and her face looked troubled. I wondered what she was dreaming about. She looked lost, almost afraid. I waited for a moment, then gently stroked her hair away from her face. She shifted again in her sleep and her mouth twitched in a small smile. Then she relaxed and her face was peaceful again. I tenderly put my arm around her and drew her closer to me. She breathed out and snuggled into my chest, and I softly stroked her forehead as I pulled the sheets over her. I saw her mouth open a little, as if she were trying to speak. It was only a whisper that I heard, scarcely more than a breath, one quiet word spoken from the depths of slumber.
"Aragorn"
I felt cold. The one word, one name spoken in a moment of carelessness that caused me such pain. She reached out towards me and slid her arm around my waist, then relaxed and was once again in a deep sleep. But I lay awake, staring into the darkness with a feeling of immense sadness weighing down onto me. I knew that I would never be able to take comfort in her embrace again. I wondered what dream was lingering on in her mind.
I did not sleep that night. She lay, unmoving and breathing softly, and I could feel her warm weight beside me as the cold light of dawn crept into our room. Then, as the sunlight danced quietly on her pale skin she moved, and her eyes slowly opened. She saw me looking at her and smiled. I tried to smile back. She laid her head back on the pillow, and I watched as she dozed. My eyes felt heavy, at first I thought that it was with tiredness, but then I knew that they were filling with tears. I had not cried since I was a child. My father did not hold with it. "Real men do not weep." They grew in my eyes, and I was powerless, or maybe I did not want to stop them. One fell; I felt it on my cheek and took some kind of strange pleasure from the sensation as the warm drop slid to my chin, leaving a shimmering trail in its wake. Yet I still felt numb, and the tears did not take hold of me, instead I felt as if I were a distance away and the only thing I could feel were the tears, falling from my eyes onto the bed sheets like soft rain. I looked to my wife. So calm and peaceful, yet I wished that she would wake. I was alone, and I looked to her. But she was sleeping, and still the tears fell, now bitter and cold. I let out a sudden sob that cut through my body like a knife, but she did not move, her face was silent, and still she slept.
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