Author's Note: Woo! Third chapter! This has been ready for awhile, but for some reason I couldn't log in to FFNet, so I haven't been able to post it. Anyway, this chapter basically cleans that scruffy little waif up! By the way, yes, I will have it discovered by Elrond about Aragorn's heritage, Elladan and Elrohir are going to make an appearance, I'll explain more about the falcon, Legolas *will* make a return to Imladris, and I've already got a good idea about Aragorn and Arwen for later! Read and review, and I'll keep writing. I have the fourth chapter ready for editing, but I'll wait for some reviews before I post it. ^_^
PS - For Varda, who pointed out to me that I used the title "Elessar" out of context, I apologize. It's only my second LotR fic, and I'm not quite used to the canon yet.
A Father Again
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
With the grimy child carefully held in his strong arms, half-covered by the sleeves of his robes, Elrond made his way to the quarters where he and his kin still dwelled. He gave his attendants orders to find suitable clothing and to heat water over braziers for a bath. Done crying except for a breath hitched in every few moments, Aragorn listened to Elrond's soft singing commands. Eyes that were still wet with a child's tears were also wide and alert; the boy was already starting to learn certain patterns of intonation and inflection in the elvish speech, although he didn't realize he was doing it.
Meanwhile, Elrond was trying desperately to remember the tiniest details of what it had been like to raise his own children. That had been thousands of years ago, and although elvish memory was vivid, the situation was so rushed that he was having trouble recalling such trivial things. At the time, he had been having more problems with war than he was taking care of Elladan, Elrohir, and Arwen, so he feared that most of their rearing had been done by their nursemaids.
"Do not be frightened, child," he said softly in the Common Tongue, rocking the boy a little in a way he thought might soothe him. "We will not harm you. You have only friends here."
The large bath was done in marble, fixed over a fire to keep the water warm. When it was ready, he carried the boy forward and set him gently on the floor. "Now then." He looked at the child expectantly.
The boy looked back up at him, with not the least bit of fear, now. There was steel in that gaze, yes. Young though it was. There was steel there. And a wondering curiosity. That second part reminded Elrond of Bilbo Baggins and the hobbits. That same kind of amazement and innocence shown from the boy, but that other part, that determination he saw in the boy's eyes to go forward unafraid, whatever came...that was not hobbitlike in the least. That part was completely human. He couldn't believe he had ever thought the boy was simple.
Keeping his voice gentle, and trying to be as tactful as he could, he asked. "Aragorn, son of Arathorn, have you ever had a bath? A true one?"
The boy spoke the first words Elrond ever heard out of him. His voice was small, but increasingly confident. "You mean, in a basin?"
Elrond nodded.
"No, I don't remember," Aragorn said softly. There was a small scowl on his face as he tried to recall anything about such things. "In the summer, I wash in the river. I mean, I did. It was too cold any other time." His eyes, Elrond saw for the first time, were a light gray, the color of sunlight hitting mithril. His hair, tangled and clotted with filth, was still an undeterminable color. "We washed our hands and face before every meal, and our clothes...when we could," the boy added with a flush coming up in his cheeks, as if he knew that cleanliness made an impression on the elvish lord. His eyes lit up for a second. "The Entwash. It was the River Entwash. I remember it."
"Well, you can talk, at least. I was beginning to wonder if they had cut out your tongue," Elrond said quietly without thinking, then wished immediately he could take it back when fear returned to the boy's face. What a thing to say to a child! He would have to try and remember himself, and speak more carefully. "No, no, nevermind it, boy. Let's get you out of those clothes."
Elrond reached out to help the boy, pulling the dirty jerkin over his head. Aragorn wriggled out of the torn trousers, chaps and leather leggings himself. Elrond gathered the soiled clothes to give to an attendant to burn, for they smelled of both orc and human blood, not to mention unclean earth, but he hesitated. The boy's parents had made them, probably his mother, and though they had been ripped by orcs and soiled with blood, and though even clean, they would be faded and worn, the stitching was good. The clothes had been sewn with care and love, and was as fine and even as any elvish garment. Instead of having them burnt, Elrond decided to have them cleaned and put away. For a memory, even if not to be worn again. The boy deserved at least that much.
The boy had obviously gone without food for days. Now that Aragorn stood before him naked, the elvish lord could see ribs outlined, and bruises covering him. Along with scratches and streaks of dirt and dried blood were also fresh bloody welts across the boy's back. Elrond was sure that this was the work of orcs. He imagined a stubborn young mortal as this would probably have had to be whipped into submission.
Elrond lifted Aragorn up into the tub; the boy seemed to weigh nothing at all. Exhausted as he was, the boy closed his eyes and sank down into the water until Elrond started in alarm, afraid that he was fainting. But the boy stopped before his head went under the water. His voice came up suddenly, resounding off the marble tiles of the bath, even though it was soft.
"Will this get their scent off me?" he whispered, not opening his eyes. Rose petals floated on the top of the warm water, thrown in with spices to perfume it. Steam rose in a hot mist.
Elrond stilled. It was not something he had expected the boy to say, and he wasn't sure how to reply. "Yes, yes, it should. We will bathe you until it is gone, anyway. I trust you are...unhurt?" he added. He knew that there was no gentle way to ask the question he really wanted to know the answer to. But perhaps, he thought, it was better to not even think on such things. Not while the death of the boy's father was so fresh.
The lord of Imladris sighed softly. He had been particularly fond of Arathorn and Gilraen. Their songs of lament had not started yet, but he was sure it would not be long before the elves' grieving could be heard throughout the forest. He was only glad the boy could not understand them.
Elrond kneeled by the basin with a soft cloth in one hand and a bar of soap in the other. He hadn't known another's feet, dwarf or human or elf, could be so incredibly filthy. It was obvious the boy hadn't worn shoes for some time. Aragorn was shivering as if the heated water could not pierce the chilled core of him, making tiny ripples.
Elrond began washing, dipping the cloth into the water and squeezing it over the child's body. Beneath his hands, he felt the shivering slowly stop, the muscles ease and relax. The boy's eyes opened.
Soap turned the boy's skin to clean satin under Elrond's delicate touch; the elvish lord rubbed hard enough to clean away the dirt, but was mindful of the fresh wounds on the boy's back. Elrond himself felt as if he was held captive in a net spun of warm water and steam and the sweet smell of the soap. He was bound there by the boy's eyes, catching his sometimes, uncertainly. The eyes of Aragorn never left his face. They always seemed to be watching, waiting perhaps for the elf's facade of tenderness to fade away into something hurtful. But slowly, the boy's eyelids drooped as he took on an air of drowsy peace.
Their eyes caught, and Elrond laughed, low and amazed. Aragorn reached a wet finger to the elf's face, streaking it with soap, his eyes serious. "How old are you?"
"Very old," Elrond replied softly, smiling just a little. The question was amusing, slightly ridiculous in its innocence. He wondered if he was being slowly won over by this little waif of a mortal, who was both so naive and hardened by what he had seen at the same time.
It could not be that easy for him, Elrond, lord of Imladris, to be endeared to such a fragile young dirty creature. It was not easy so far, no matter how fond he had been of Arathorn and Gilraen. It was only that he'd wanted to protect the child of Arathorn, who had always been elf-friend.
Or maybe, he mused, you're just afraid to commit yourself to this child, who is not like your own, to live forever in your house, but who will someday die or be killed, and taken from you?
Elrond of Halfelven, who had defied Sauron to his face, afraid? Absurd.
"Older than my father?" Another of Aragorn's questions interrupted his thoughts.
"Older than the father of your father's father."
The boy shifted in the tub and lost traction, slipping beneath the water. Elrond reached in and pulled him up, sputtering, with soap in his eyes. He emptied the tub and called for fresh water, stoking the brazier beneath it, and started the whole process over again. This time, he scrubbed hands, toes, fingernails, and the bottom of the boy's feet with a stiff brush, and still wasn't completely satisfied. He wondered wryly how many baths would be needed to wash away that ground-in dirt and blood.
They fell into mutual silence as Elrond dried Aragorn down. He put the boy in some of Elladan and Elrohir's childhood clothes, the few that survived their antics, anyway. They were elvish cloth that had not been destroyed, but preserved for over two thousand years. The garments were castoff and a little worn, but didn't fit all too badly. To Aragorn, they seemed the finery of a king. Elrond combed Aragorn's wet, uneven dark hair as best he could, then pulled it back from the boy's face with a leather lace, stepping back finally to take a look at him.
He was reasonably handsome, for a mortal child, but not quite fair, at least not in the sense that the elves were fair. His skin was too tanned by long weeks on the trail, an imperfect set to his face that made him seem more hardy than elegant. But in the clothes Elrond had put on him, he seemed to take on an almost regal appearance. The elvish lord could tell already that the boy would grow to have a face to be trusted.
Aragorn lifted the elvish tunic up and buried his nose in it. "Smells different."
"Yes, well," Elrond replied, not knowing whether to laugh or take offense. He stifled a chuckle in a cough and maintained a neutral expression. "You smell different now, as well. And I cannot scent orc on you."
"Good," the boy replied, lifting his gaze. It was fierce.
"Come look at yourself, Aragorn, son of Arathorn, and tell me what you think." He led the boy to a guest chamber, over to a large crystal mirror. Elrond felt his throat tighten as he watched the boy, with his scared, hopeful, brave eyes and his bruised face approach his own image as if it was the most wondrous thing he'd ever seen.
What must he be thinking? Elrond wondered, watching the boy smooth down his clothes, feeling their texture, bringing his eyes up every few seconds to look in the mirror unbelievingly. Maybe he's never seen himself before, in anything but flat water. Maybe he's never seen a mirror.
The boy touched the soft kid leather boots, the strapped leggings, the tunic, then the cord in his hair. He looked up at Elrond's reflection in the mirror. "Elrond?" It was the first time he had spoken the name, and Elrond was pleased by the soft lilt Aragorn gave the word, although the fact that the boy didn't add his title was extraordinary to him. So young, yet so bold already.
"Yes?"
"Am I going to live here now?"
Elrond felt a flash of anger at Legolas, seemingly from nowhere. How dare the Mirkwood prince presume to leave this child in his care? He realized that a part of it wasn't directed at Legolas at all; it was only a dim grief-driven fury, that Arathorn, one of the most noble and just men Elrond had ever known in all the ages of his life, had died so senselessly. But Legolas had left this boy with him, the blood of Arathorn and the fair lady Gilraen, without having the remotest idea what kind of creature the child really was, what he'd seen, and what had happened to him.
Something must have shown on his face, because Aragorn gave him a lost, bewildered look. Elrond was immediately ashamed, though he never would have admitted it. The boy could not help it that he had come to be here. He had not asked for his father to be killed in front of him.
If you can do nothing else for the boy, Elrond thought to himself, at least be kind. And do not fault Legolas. He did what he thought was right for the time.
He made himself smile and held out his hand to the boy. "Come, boy. We'll see to your meal and your hawk, and then we'll see about you staying here. But there are a few people I would like you to meet first."
~~~~~~~~~ That's it. Review review people! Better reviews make for a better story (like people asking questions and giving me good ideas!)
PS - For Varda, who pointed out to me that I used the title "Elessar" out of context, I apologize. It's only my second LotR fic, and I'm not quite used to the canon yet.
A Father Again
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
With the grimy child carefully held in his strong arms, half-covered by the sleeves of his robes, Elrond made his way to the quarters where he and his kin still dwelled. He gave his attendants orders to find suitable clothing and to heat water over braziers for a bath. Done crying except for a breath hitched in every few moments, Aragorn listened to Elrond's soft singing commands. Eyes that were still wet with a child's tears were also wide and alert; the boy was already starting to learn certain patterns of intonation and inflection in the elvish speech, although he didn't realize he was doing it.
Meanwhile, Elrond was trying desperately to remember the tiniest details of what it had been like to raise his own children. That had been thousands of years ago, and although elvish memory was vivid, the situation was so rushed that he was having trouble recalling such trivial things. At the time, he had been having more problems with war than he was taking care of Elladan, Elrohir, and Arwen, so he feared that most of their rearing had been done by their nursemaids.
"Do not be frightened, child," he said softly in the Common Tongue, rocking the boy a little in a way he thought might soothe him. "We will not harm you. You have only friends here."
The large bath was done in marble, fixed over a fire to keep the water warm. When it was ready, he carried the boy forward and set him gently on the floor. "Now then." He looked at the child expectantly.
The boy looked back up at him, with not the least bit of fear, now. There was steel in that gaze, yes. Young though it was. There was steel there. And a wondering curiosity. That second part reminded Elrond of Bilbo Baggins and the hobbits. That same kind of amazement and innocence shown from the boy, but that other part, that determination he saw in the boy's eyes to go forward unafraid, whatever came...that was not hobbitlike in the least. That part was completely human. He couldn't believe he had ever thought the boy was simple.
Keeping his voice gentle, and trying to be as tactful as he could, he asked. "Aragorn, son of Arathorn, have you ever had a bath? A true one?"
The boy spoke the first words Elrond ever heard out of him. His voice was small, but increasingly confident. "You mean, in a basin?"
Elrond nodded.
"No, I don't remember," Aragorn said softly. There was a small scowl on his face as he tried to recall anything about such things. "In the summer, I wash in the river. I mean, I did. It was too cold any other time." His eyes, Elrond saw for the first time, were a light gray, the color of sunlight hitting mithril. His hair, tangled and clotted with filth, was still an undeterminable color. "We washed our hands and face before every meal, and our clothes...when we could," the boy added with a flush coming up in his cheeks, as if he knew that cleanliness made an impression on the elvish lord. His eyes lit up for a second. "The Entwash. It was the River Entwash. I remember it."
"Well, you can talk, at least. I was beginning to wonder if they had cut out your tongue," Elrond said quietly without thinking, then wished immediately he could take it back when fear returned to the boy's face. What a thing to say to a child! He would have to try and remember himself, and speak more carefully. "No, no, nevermind it, boy. Let's get you out of those clothes."
Elrond reached out to help the boy, pulling the dirty jerkin over his head. Aragorn wriggled out of the torn trousers, chaps and leather leggings himself. Elrond gathered the soiled clothes to give to an attendant to burn, for they smelled of both orc and human blood, not to mention unclean earth, but he hesitated. The boy's parents had made them, probably his mother, and though they had been ripped by orcs and soiled with blood, and though even clean, they would be faded and worn, the stitching was good. The clothes had been sewn with care and love, and was as fine and even as any elvish garment. Instead of having them burnt, Elrond decided to have them cleaned and put away. For a memory, even if not to be worn again. The boy deserved at least that much.
The boy had obviously gone without food for days. Now that Aragorn stood before him naked, the elvish lord could see ribs outlined, and bruises covering him. Along with scratches and streaks of dirt and dried blood were also fresh bloody welts across the boy's back. Elrond was sure that this was the work of orcs. He imagined a stubborn young mortal as this would probably have had to be whipped into submission.
Elrond lifted Aragorn up into the tub; the boy seemed to weigh nothing at all. Exhausted as he was, the boy closed his eyes and sank down into the water until Elrond started in alarm, afraid that he was fainting. But the boy stopped before his head went under the water. His voice came up suddenly, resounding off the marble tiles of the bath, even though it was soft.
"Will this get their scent off me?" he whispered, not opening his eyes. Rose petals floated on the top of the warm water, thrown in with spices to perfume it. Steam rose in a hot mist.
Elrond stilled. It was not something he had expected the boy to say, and he wasn't sure how to reply. "Yes, yes, it should. We will bathe you until it is gone, anyway. I trust you are...unhurt?" he added. He knew that there was no gentle way to ask the question he really wanted to know the answer to. But perhaps, he thought, it was better to not even think on such things. Not while the death of the boy's father was so fresh.
The lord of Imladris sighed softly. He had been particularly fond of Arathorn and Gilraen. Their songs of lament had not started yet, but he was sure it would not be long before the elves' grieving could be heard throughout the forest. He was only glad the boy could not understand them.
Elrond kneeled by the basin with a soft cloth in one hand and a bar of soap in the other. He hadn't known another's feet, dwarf or human or elf, could be so incredibly filthy. It was obvious the boy hadn't worn shoes for some time. Aragorn was shivering as if the heated water could not pierce the chilled core of him, making tiny ripples.
Elrond began washing, dipping the cloth into the water and squeezing it over the child's body. Beneath his hands, he felt the shivering slowly stop, the muscles ease and relax. The boy's eyes opened.
Soap turned the boy's skin to clean satin under Elrond's delicate touch; the elvish lord rubbed hard enough to clean away the dirt, but was mindful of the fresh wounds on the boy's back. Elrond himself felt as if he was held captive in a net spun of warm water and steam and the sweet smell of the soap. He was bound there by the boy's eyes, catching his sometimes, uncertainly. The eyes of Aragorn never left his face. They always seemed to be watching, waiting perhaps for the elf's facade of tenderness to fade away into something hurtful. But slowly, the boy's eyelids drooped as he took on an air of drowsy peace.
Their eyes caught, and Elrond laughed, low and amazed. Aragorn reached a wet finger to the elf's face, streaking it with soap, his eyes serious. "How old are you?"
"Very old," Elrond replied softly, smiling just a little. The question was amusing, slightly ridiculous in its innocence. He wondered if he was being slowly won over by this little waif of a mortal, who was both so naive and hardened by what he had seen at the same time.
It could not be that easy for him, Elrond, lord of Imladris, to be endeared to such a fragile young dirty creature. It was not easy so far, no matter how fond he had been of Arathorn and Gilraen. It was only that he'd wanted to protect the child of Arathorn, who had always been elf-friend.
Or maybe, he mused, you're just afraid to commit yourself to this child, who is not like your own, to live forever in your house, but who will someday die or be killed, and taken from you?
Elrond of Halfelven, who had defied Sauron to his face, afraid? Absurd.
"Older than my father?" Another of Aragorn's questions interrupted his thoughts.
"Older than the father of your father's father."
The boy shifted in the tub and lost traction, slipping beneath the water. Elrond reached in and pulled him up, sputtering, with soap in his eyes. He emptied the tub and called for fresh water, stoking the brazier beneath it, and started the whole process over again. This time, he scrubbed hands, toes, fingernails, and the bottom of the boy's feet with a stiff brush, and still wasn't completely satisfied. He wondered wryly how many baths would be needed to wash away that ground-in dirt and blood.
They fell into mutual silence as Elrond dried Aragorn down. He put the boy in some of Elladan and Elrohir's childhood clothes, the few that survived their antics, anyway. They were elvish cloth that had not been destroyed, but preserved for over two thousand years. The garments were castoff and a little worn, but didn't fit all too badly. To Aragorn, they seemed the finery of a king. Elrond combed Aragorn's wet, uneven dark hair as best he could, then pulled it back from the boy's face with a leather lace, stepping back finally to take a look at him.
He was reasonably handsome, for a mortal child, but not quite fair, at least not in the sense that the elves were fair. His skin was too tanned by long weeks on the trail, an imperfect set to his face that made him seem more hardy than elegant. But in the clothes Elrond had put on him, he seemed to take on an almost regal appearance. The elvish lord could tell already that the boy would grow to have a face to be trusted.
Aragorn lifted the elvish tunic up and buried his nose in it. "Smells different."
"Yes, well," Elrond replied, not knowing whether to laugh or take offense. He stifled a chuckle in a cough and maintained a neutral expression. "You smell different now, as well. And I cannot scent orc on you."
"Good," the boy replied, lifting his gaze. It was fierce.
"Come look at yourself, Aragorn, son of Arathorn, and tell me what you think." He led the boy to a guest chamber, over to a large crystal mirror. Elrond felt his throat tighten as he watched the boy, with his scared, hopeful, brave eyes and his bruised face approach his own image as if it was the most wondrous thing he'd ever seen.
What must he be thinking? Elrond wondered, watching the boy smooth down his clothes, feeling their texture, bringing his eyes up every few seconds to look in the mirror unbelievingly. Maybe he's never seen himself before, in anything but flat water. Maybe he's never seen a mirror.
The boy touched the soft kid leather boots, the strapped leggings, the tunic, then the cord in his hair. He looked up at Elrond's reflection in the mirror. "Elrond?" It was the first time he had spoken the name, and Elrond was pleased by the soft lilt Aragorn gave the word, although the fact that the boy didn't add his title was extraordinary to him. So young, yet so bold already.
"Yes?"
"Am I going to live here now?"
Elrond felt a flash of anger at Legolas, seemingly from nowhere. How dare the Mirkwood prince presume to leave this child in his care? He realized that a part of it wasn't directed at Legolas at all; it was only a dim grief-driven fury, that Arathorn, one of the most noble and just men Elrond had ever known in all the ages of his life, had died so senselessly. But Legolas had left this boy with him, the blood of Arathorn and the fair lady Gilraen, without having the remotest idea what kind of creature the child really was, what he'd seen, and what had happened to him.
Something must have shown on his face, because Aragorn gave him a lost, bewildered look. Elrond was immediately ashamed, though he never would have admitted it. The boy could not help it that he had come to be here. He had not asked for his father to be killed in front of him.
If you can do nothing else for the boy, Elrond thought to himself, at least be kind. And do not fault Legolas. He did what he thought was right for the time.
He made himself smile and held out his hand to the boy. "Come, boy. We'll see to your meal and your hawk, and then we'll see about you staying here. But there are a few people I would like you to meet first."
~~~~~~~~~ That's it. Review review people! Better reviews make for a better story (like people asking questions and giving me good ideas!)