Author's Note: Thanks for the reviews, as always! They're encouraging! By the way, somewhere along the line, Aragorn is going to age quite a bit (not in this chapter, but one of the later ones that isn't written yet), so don't be surprised when it happens.
Estel
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
This was comfort.
The air inside the secluded room where the twins were taking their meal with him was rosy and golden, perfumed with hot bread and spices, warmed by a brazier in the corner. Aragorn had never seen so much food in his life. There were huge platters of fruit and vegetables and bread brought out and set before them that dazzled his mind. The variety of things to eat itself was amazing, especially after all the weeks on the trail with his father, where he had had nothing but deer, rabbit, and a few herbs and greens his father had declared safe for their band to eat.
Here were some foods he had never seen before, outlandish vegetables, rinds of cheese, warm biscuits, crocks of sweet white butter, lembas bread, fresh fruit, whipped cream, chunks of cake. While Elladan and Elrohir ate sparingly, Aragorn couldn't seem to get enough of any of it, refilling his plate again and again. After awhile, the two elves stopped eating entirely, watching the boy eat with wonder, trying to figure out where he was putting it all.
The twins spoke quietly among themselves in their own language, letting Aragorn eat in peace, and get a little peace. Finally, Elrohir nodded to himself after watching the boy, and turned to his brother, switching to the Common Tongue again.
"You know, I think he needs a new name. I've been thinking on it all afternoon. He's in a new place, and he's one of us now. I think he should leave his old name behind....until he grows into it."
"That's ridiculous," Elladan replied seriously, a scowl set on his face. "You can't just give someone a new name. Names are things of power, especially with Men. You know that. Anyway, it's not your place to decide what to call him."
"It's not ridiculous, Elladan. He'll never fit in with a name like he has. And it'll always drag him down, what he is and where he came from. He should be able to forget those things."
The boy watched both of them, a little bit taken with the idea of a new name, especially if these people, who had comforted him and fed him and treated him like one of them, were the ones to give it to him.
"What would you call him, then?"
"Fionelwen. Hawkheart."
Aragorn looked dubious. He mouthed the word silently and knew before even saying it aloud that he would butcher the flowing syllables, and ended in a yawn. The room was so warm.
Elladan saw the expression on Aragorn's face and laughed softly. "What a name! He could not even say it!"
The murmuring of the twins was making the boy sleepier and sleepier. He pushed his plate away and rested his head in his arms.
He wasn't sure how long he sat dozing there with his head on the table before he felt himself lifted up. He opened his eyes sleepily, seeing that the person carrying him was not Elladan or Elrohir but Elrond himself, and buried his face away from the light in elvish lord's shoulder. Elrond carried the boy into a bedchamber set off of the royal quarters and set him down in the bed, taking off his jewelry and adornments, leaving him in his soft tunic and leggings. He brushed the hair from Aragorn's forehead silently, covered him up with sheets and covers.
"Elrond."
Elrond looked down at the boy, who had grabbed his sleeve, tugging it a little. "Aragorn?"
"What is that singing?" Aragorn turned towards the window, listening to the sound of mourning elvish song wafting in on the night breeze. In the quiet of the evening, it seemed everywhere, drifting like a melancholy perfume. "Why is it so sad?"
Elrond looked down at Aragorn, looking so young and small in the huge bed, and almost told a lie. But lies had a way of coming back to the one who told them, he knew. And he had not had lied in many, many years. In the end, he considered it less painful to be honest and not spare the boy's feelings.
"It is a lament. A song of mourning," he said quietly, brushing back the hair from Aragorn's face again. No matter what he did, it seemed to fall back into place, but it comforted him to do it. And it seemed a comfort to Aragorn, as well. "It is a song for your father."
Aragorn grew quiet for a moment, the fur covers pulled up to his chin, then spoke again, his voice a whisper. "What do they...say about him?"
"That he was a good man. That he was brave, and strong, and noble. That he was always our friend, and a star among his people," Elrond said softly.
Aragorn looked up at him a minute, then moved, turning his back to Elrond. Elrond saw the boy's shoulders shivering, hitching, and put his hand on Aragorn's shoulder.
"What's wrong?"
Aragorn did not speak. He didn't turn back towards Elrond.
"Please, Aragorn. I would only help you. Tell me." He reached out to touch Aragorn's hair again, but Aragorn moved his head slightly, recoiling, and Elrond pulled his hand back. Finally, Aragorn spoke, his voice choked with tears.
"I hid. They shot my father down and I hid. I couldn't fight. I was a coward."
Elrond put his hand on the edge of the bed, since Aragorn would not let him touch him. He wanted desperately to give consolation to the boy, but he wasn't sure how.
"You are not a coward, Aragorn. You had to watch your father fall. You should not have had to fight. It took great courage to be taken by orcs and still live long enough to be rescued."
"But I could not protect him."
"Oh, Aragorn," Elrond whispered. He touched the boy's shoulder again, and this time it was not shrugged off. "He was a Ranger. He protected you, and that was worth everything to him. He loved you enough to give his life so that you could live. Do not throw away that sacrifice. Do not belittle it."
Now, Aragorn turned and came up on his hands, looking at Elrond, his face stricken and streaked with tears, shivering, the fur blanket falling down to his waist. Elrond had never seen such raw grief before, and his heart was touched by it. He did not understand grief for the dead, not the same way that this boy was grieving, but he understood what it did to people. And he knew he felt it, grief more for Aragorn than for Arathorn. For the survivor, rather than the dead. The dead could feel nothing. Only the survivors could suffer so. He pulled the boy against him, to tremble in his strong arms against his chest.
"It's all right, Aragorn, it'll be all right, you'll see..." Elrond took one of the boy's hands. It was so cold. He tucked the boy against his chest, murmuring soft elvish words into the boy's hair over and over, feeling the boy sob against him slowly, cheek against Elrond's robes. But Aragorn didn't speak.
If only he would speak, Elrond thought, if he was talk this poison out of him, the grief and the guilt. But the boy's shivering went on and on. Elrond stroked Aragorn's hair and face and arms, rubbing the boy's back, just letting him cry.
The sobs slowly stopped, and the trembling. Elrond leaned forward slightly to see if Aragorn had fallen asleep. He couldn't tell, though the boy's eyes were closed. Should he say anything? No, he thought. If he was silent, maybe Aragorn would doze off. The lament was still being sung, and probably would be sung throughout the night. Next to the sound of it, the rest of the palace was very still.
Aragorn's breath was coming even and steady finally. Elrond could feel the light flutter of the boy's mortal heart against his chest. It beat differently than an elvish heart, quicker and harder, as if defying the day it would stop. How would it be, to raise this boy, the struggle and the pain and the joy and the laughter, and then finally the grief? Somehow, these thoughts had lost a little of their bite. He was not worried about them now.
He moved the boy gently back to the bed, sliding Aragorn's head onto the pillow, arranging the covers. He continued smoothing the boy's soft hair for a few moments, then leaned down and put a soft kiss on the boy's forehead.
"I heard Elladan and Elrohir. They spoke of a new name for you, so I will give you one," Elrond whispered, cradling the boy's face.
"Estel. Our hope. The hope of your people." Elrond left him there with the door ajar so he could hear the voices in the halls, and not be afraid.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Orcs everywhere. There was screaming all around him. Terrible wailing cries. The Rangers were outnumbered, far outnumbered. His father was knocking them away, turning his sword in a great arc, knocking them down, pitched himself into battle, fighting for his life. For the life of his son.
Arrows, arrows raining down in the dark.
"Father!" Aragorn screamed and screamed, unable to take his eyes off his father's form. Arathorn stood still, arrows sticking out from him. Aragorn found himself in the arms of orcs, and pushed at them, trying with all his strength to push them away, and all his strength was not enough. He jerked loose his legs only to have them caught again by clawed, cold, hurting fingers. He shoved at them with his arms, only to have them pinned to his sides.
"Father!" This cry came out of him with all of his worst pain and fear. He howled again wordlessly, a sound of pure fury, thinking maybe this last defiant angry shout will be a defense, and protect him and his father. But his father had already fallen, and the orcs had him.
Defense? Defense against what? He didn't know. He didn't know any words to describe his loathing of these creatures. It wasn't a part of his vocabulary. It was suffering without a name. Before they had attacked the Rangers and his father and him, he had been too young to understand that there were things, intelligent things, that would hurt you for absolutely no reason other than the fact that they loved to hear you shriek in agony and terror. He had grown up all too quickly, alone in the dark.
Andune's keening, screeching cry in the darkness, terrible to hear. He dropped like a stone in the air, talons and cruel jagged beak searching. He ripped at soft orc eyes with his beak, blinding one of orcs that was holding Aragorn. Black blood flew in the night air. Talons battered at the orc's face, turning it into a gory ruin.
And darkness swept in...
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Aragorn sat up in bed with a gasp, gazing out into the darkness. There was a moment of terror when he didn't recognize where he was, and then he remembered. The last thing in his dream he had heard before he woke had been the cry of the hawk. But even after he knew he was awake, that same razor sharp cry sounded again. It was coming from outside his window.
"Andune," he whispered, sitting up in his bed. He had never been in a bed so soft. He sank into the feather mattress, and when he heard the falcon cry out again, more softly this time, he was suddenly wide awake. He got up and walked over to the open window, looking out. Andune perched on a tree limb near the window, and turned to look at him. The moon was reflected in the hawk's eyes.
"You came back. Why did you come back?" Aragorn asked, his voice almost inaudible. The hawk didn't answer, only tucked its head under its wing.
Aragorn walked back over to the bed and got it, warming his feet under the furs. He squirmed around, and moved from side to side, but not matter what he did, he couldn't get comfortable again. He had spent so many long months sleeping out on the ground that the bed felt too soft to him. Finally, he crawled out again, took the quilt of soft furs, and curled up on the cold stone of the floor, wrapping the blanket around him.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ Review review, people! Tell me what you want, and if I can fit it in, I will!
Estel
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
This was comfort.
The air inside the secluded room where the twins were taking their meal with him was rosy and golden, perfumed with hot bread and spices, warmed by a brazier in the corner. Aragorn had never seen so much food in his life. There were huge platters of fruit and vegetables and bread brought out and set before them that dazzled his mind. The variety of things to eat itself was amazing, especially after all the weeks on the trail with his father, where he had had nothing but deer, rabbit, and a few herbs and greens his father had declared safe for their band to eat.
Here were some foods he had never seen before, outlandish vegetables, rinds of cheese, warm biscuits, crocks of sweet white butter, lembas bread, fresh fruit, whipped cream, chunks of cake. While Elladan and Elrohir ate sparingly, Aragorn couldn't seem to get enough of any of it, refilling his plate again and again. After awhile, the two elves stopped eating entirely, watching the boy eat with wonder, trying to figure out where he was putting it all.
The twins spoke quietly among themselves in their own language, letting Aragorn eat in peace, and get a little peace. Finally, Elrohir nodded to himself after watching the boy, and turned to his brother, switching to the Common Tongue again.
"You know, I think he needs a new name. I've been thinking on it all afternoon. He's in a new place, and he's one of us now. I think he should leave his old name behind....until he grows into it."
"That's ridiculous," Elladan replied seriously, a scowl set on his face. "You can't just give someone a new name. Names are things of power, especially with Men. You know that. Anyway, it's not your place to decide what to call him."
"It's not ridiculous, Elladan. He'll never fit in with a name like he has. And it'll always drag him down, what he is and where he came from. He should be able to forget those things."
The boy watched both of them, a little bit taken with the idea of a new name, especially if these people, who had comforted him and fed him and treated him like one of them, were the ones to give it to him.
"What would you call him, then?"
"Fionelwen. Hawkheart."
Aragorn looked dubious. He mouthed the word silently and knew before even saying it aloud that he would butcher the flowing syllables, and ended in a yawn. The room was so warm.
Elladan saw the expression on Aragorn's face and laughed softly. "What a name! He could not even say it!"
The murmuring of the twins was making the boy sleepier and sleepier. He pushed his plate away and rested his head in his arms.
He wasn't sure how long he sat dozing there with his head on the table before he felt himself lifted up. He opened his eyes sleepily, seeing that the person carrying him was not Elladan or Elrohir but Elrond himself, and buried his face away from the light in elvish lord's shoulder. Elrond carried the boy into a bedchamber set off of the royal quarters and set him down in the bed, taking off his jewelry and adornments, leaving him in his soft tunic and leggings. He brushed the hair from Aragorn's forehead silently, covered him up with sheets and covers.
"Elrond."
Elrond looked down at the boy, who had grabbed his sleeve, tugging it a little. "Aragorn?"
"What is that singing?" Aragorn turned towards the window, listening to the sound of mourning elvish song wafting in on the night breeze. In the quiet of the evening, it seemed everywhere, drifting like a melancholy perfume. "Why is it so sad?"
Elrond looked down at Aragorn, looking so young and small in the huge bed, and almost told a lie. But lies had a way of coming back to the one who told them, he knew. And he had not had lied in many, many years. In the end, he considered it less painful to be honest and not spare the boy's feelings.
"It is a lament. A song of mourning," he said quietly, brushing back the hair from Aragorn's face again. No matter what he did, it seemed to fall back into place, but it comforted him to do it. And it seemed a comfort to Aragorn, as well. "It is a song for your father."
Aragorn grew quiet for a moment, the fur covers pulled up to his chin, then spoke again, his voice a whisper. "What do they...say about him?"
"That he was a good man. That he was brave, and strong, and noble. That he was always our friend, and a star among his people," Elrond said softly.
Aragorn looked up at him a minute, then moved, turning his back to Elrond. Elrond saw the boy's shoulders shivering, hitching, and put his hand on Aragorn's shoulder.
"What's wrong?"
Aragorn did not speak. He didn't turn back towards Elrond.
"Please, Aragorn. I would only help you. Tell me." He reached out to touch Aragorn's hair again, but Aragorn moved his head slightly, recoiling, and Elrond pulled his hand back. Finally, Aragorn spoke, his voice choked with tears.
"I hid. They shot my father down and I hid. I couldn't fight. I was a coward."
Elrond put his hand on the edge of the bed, since Aragorn would not let him touch him. He wanted desperately to give consolation to the boy, but he wasn't sure how.
"You are not a coward, Aragorn. You had to watch your father fall. You should not have had to fight. It took great courage to be taken by orcs and still live long enough to be rescued."
"But I could not protect him."
"Oh, Aragorn," Elrond whispered. He touched the boy's shoulder again, and this time it was not shrugged off. "He was a Ranger. He protected you, and that was worth everything to him. He loved you enough to give his life so that you could live. Do not throw away that sacrifice. Do not belittle it."
Now, Aragorn turned and came up on his hands, looking at Elrond, his face stricken and streaked with tears, shivering, the fur blanket falling down to his waist. Elrond had never seen such raw grief before, and his heart was touched by it. He did not understand grief for the dead, not the same way that this boy was grieving, but he understood what it did to people. And he knew he felt it, grief more for Aragorn than for Arathorn. For the survivor, rather than the dead. The dead could feel nothing. Only the survivors could suffer so. He pulled the boy against him, to tremble in his strong arms against his chest.
"It's all right, Aragorn, it'll be all right, you'll see..." Elrond took one of the boy's hands. It was so cold. He tucked the boy against his chest, murmuring soft elvish words into the boy's hair over and over, feeling the boy sob against him slowly, cheek against Elrond's robes. But Aragorn didn't speak.
If only he would speak, Elrond thought, if he was talk this poison out of him, the grief and the guilt. But the boy's shivering went on and on. Elrond stroked Aragorn's hair and face and arms, rubbing the boy's back, just letting him cry.
The sobs slowly stopped, and the trembling. Elrond leaned forward slightly to see if Aragorn had fallen asleep. He couldn't tell, though the boy's eyes were closed. Should he say anything? No, he thought. If he was silent, maybe Aragorn would doze off. The lament was still being sung, and probably would be sung throughout the night. Next to the sound of it, the rest of the palace was very still.
Aragorn's breath was coming even and steady finally. Elrond could feel the light flutter of the boy's mortal heart against his chest. It beat differently than an elvish heart, quicker and harder, as if defying the day it would stop. How would it be, to raise this boy, the struggle and the pain and the joy and the laughter, and then finally the grief? Somehow, these thoughts had lost a little of their bite. He was not worried about them now.
He moved the boy gently back to the bed, sliding Aragorn's head onto the pillow, arranging the covers. He continued smoothing the boy's soft hair for a few moments, then leaned down and put a soft kiss on the boy's forehead.
"I heard Elladan and Elrohir. They spoke of a new name for you, so I will give you one," Elrond whispered, cradling the boy's face.
"Estel. Our hope. The hope of your people." Elrond left him there with the door ajar so he could hear the voices in the halls, and not be afraid.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Orcs everywhere. There was screaming all around him. Terrible wailing cries. The Rangers were outnumbered, far outnumbered. His father was knocking them away, turning his sword in a great arc, knocking them down, pitched himself into battle, fighting for his life. For the life of his son.
Arrows, arrows raining down in the dark.
"Father!" Aragorn screamed and screamed, unable to take his eyes off his father's form. Arathorn stood still, arrows sticking out from him. Aragorn found himself in the arms of orcs, and pushed at them, trying with all his strength to push them away, and all his strength was not enough. He jerked loose his legs only to have them caught again by clawed, cold, hurting fingers. He shoved at them with his arms, only to have them pinned to his sides.
"Father!" This cry came out of him with all of his worst pain and fear. He howled again wordlessly, a sound of pure fury, thinking maybe this last defiant angry shout will be a defense, and protect him and his father. But his father had already fallen, and the orcs had him.
Defense? Defense against what? He didn't know. He didn't know any words to describe his loathing of these creatures. It wasn't a part of his vocabulary. It was suffering without a name. Before they had attacked the Rangers and his father and him, he had been too young to understand that there were things, intelligent things, that would hurt you for absolutely no reason other than the fact that they loved to hear you shriek in agony and terror. He had grown up all too quickly, alone in the dark.
Andune's keening, screeching cry in the darkness, terrible to hear. He dropped like a stone in the air, talons and cruel jagged beak searching. He ripped at soft orc eyes with his beak, blinding one of orcs that was holding Aragorn. Black blood flew in the night air. Talons battered at the orc's face, turning it into a gory ruin.
And darkness swept in...
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Aragorn sat up in bed with a gasp, gazing out into the darkness. There was a moment of terror when he didn't recognize where he was, and then he remembered. The last thing in his dream he had heard before he woke had been the cry of the hawk. But even after he knew he was awake, that same razor sharp cry sounded again. It was coming from outside his window.
"Andune," he whispered, sitting up in his bed. He had never been in a bed so soft. He sank into the feather mattress, and when he heard the falcon cry out again, more softly this time, he was suddenly wide awake. He got up and walked over to the open window, looking out. Andune perched on a tree limb near the window, and turned to look at him. The moon was reflected in the hawk's eyes.
"You came back. Why did you come back?" Aragorn asked, his voice almost inaudible. The hawk didn't answer, only tucked its head under its wing.
Aragorn walked back over to the bed and got it, warming his feet under the furs. He squirmed around, and moved from side to side, but not matter what he did, he couldn't get comfortable again. He had spent so many long months sleeping out on the ground that the bed felt too soft to him. Finally, he crawled out again, took the quilt of soft furs, and curled up on the cold stone of the floor, wrapping the blanket around him.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ Review review, people! Tell me what you want, and if I can fit it in, I will!