Title: A Mercenary for Gondor
Prompt #7: Alone
Author: Maranwe
Rating: G
Disclaimer: All recognizable characters, locations, etc., belong to their original creator. I make no money from the creation of this fic. It is intended for entertainment only.
A/N: Here, as promised. And slightly altered from its original version. Hopefully, it's better. Enjoy.
88888
"Congratulations, Captain Thorongil," Lord Hurin said in greeting, halting the other man's slow trek along the outer edges of the Great Hall. Around them, murmured conversation mixed with music from the bards and minstrels the Steward had commissioned for the feast.
Thorongil faced him properly and bowed. "I will convey your congratulations to my men." He did not smile, nor offer further comment, but waited respectfully.
Hurin shifted under the intent regard, then bowed with a quick smile and made his excuses. Thorongil watched him leave, then resumed his course, sticking as close as he could to the shadows without seeming to skulk and drawing little attention for the moment.
From the sidelines, he observed the swirl of color that comprised the celebration feast – all lords and ladies attired in their best finery, parading before each other and their lord steward. "See," they seemed to say, dressed in silks and velvets, in jewels and finery, "I am a credit to Gondor. I am worthy."
Compared to the worthy masses, their dear captain was sorely under-dressed though his tunic and surcoat were finely made and tailored, his boots shined. The material was too coarse, too plain—too lacking in embroidery and jewels both.
In quiet moments, when he was given leave to consider his position relative to where others viewed him, he felt the difference as a burden – one he was forced ever to view without taking up.
No matter his home or lineage, to Gondor, he could be nothing more than a highly skilled, valorous mercenary, who had won both trust and renown. Love, he would say he had earned; but love tempted the young ladies to smile coyly and their fathers to extol their virtues.
It sparked a peculiar kind of pain to hear his people speak of him remaining when he was bound by the rule of the mercenary. It did not matter how fond he had become of the people, how much he had come to love the city – while Sauron and the threat of the Shadow remained, Thorongil could not more stay than Aragorn could.
"Captain Thorongil." The voice was light and feminine, and he focused on the round face, noting full lips and high cheekbones secondary to gray-blue eyes. He recognized her immediately as the daughter of the lord of Lossarnach, though he could not remember her name. She smiled at him and ducked her head, a touch of red on her cheeks. "Forgive my presumption, but would you favor me with a dance?"
He accepted and offered his arm, unable to deny her shy hope. But as he ushered her across the room, his thoughts turned to Arwen, turned to what little memories he had of them, turned to the future he hoped for.
In that moment, he felt the burden of time keenly. His time in Minas Tirith weighed heavily, dragging at his feet, and the time he had left pressed close, stifling his breath.
Thorongil smiled and bowed when the song ended, and begged her pardon before striding purposely toward the door. Prince Imrahil intercepted him before he made his escape, and he hoped his expression was not as strained as it felt. But, suddenly, he could not bear to be around a people who accepted him when fate demanded he keep his distance.
Excusing himself as soon as it was polite to do so, Thorongil slipped from the hall and into the night. Through empty streets he wandered long, a faceless stranger whose name everyone knew and no one could know, protecting from the shadows as he had ever done, as he would ever do. Until the King should come again.