Disclaimer: I do not own Lord of the Rings or any recognizable characters
and/or places. Bjourn, Mica, Aralya, and Gaven are of my invention.
Cestari: Well, it was supposed to be sad! It was her father's death! But things will look up, in time.
BrynnAnnalea: Thanks!
JavaGalxy: Thanks! Present tense is almost like. . .it sort of brings the story alive, if done right. If a story is written well in present tense, it is really happening. (Yeah, I'm on a bit of an Alice Hoffman binge)
Tbiris: Thanks!
Sorry this chapter took so long!
*****
I awake two days later, unaware that I have slept for so long, and at first confused as to why my throat is so raw. It all comes flooding back to me with unnerving brutality, and I shoot upright, my breath coming in ragged bursts. Spots appear before my eyes. Suddenly the tears of my sleep are nothing. No grief has been washed from me, nor spilt from my eyes.
I cough-sob like a young child, my throat closing in on itself as I try to be more dignified, and at the same time less saddened. Brushing away my tears with the heels of my hands, I form small circles with my shoulders to loosen them from so much time in repose.
But no matter how much I try to distract myself, I cannot keep from crying out in despair, though my cries are false, mere sob-coughs. Suddenly strong arms are around me, holding me. "Shh, Aralya, it is all right. It is all right to cry."
I keep my hands over my eyes, but lean into Legolas's embrace and allow him to rock me gently. He has always been as a father to me, and in light of recent events I am comforted by the feeling of being someone's daughter. "Please say it is unreal," I beg. "Please tell me he will come home."
I know Legolas wants to tell me this, wants to say that everything will be all right, but he does not. Instead he lifts me so that I am no longer leaning against him, and he says, "I am so sorry, Aralya. You know your father loved you very much, but he had to do what he had to do. Think not harshly of him. He would not wish you the bitterness."
"How could I?" I ask. "I loved him. I am no traitor. I love him still. I just wish he were still here." The idea of having no father has grown in my mind, and I am almost ready to accept it. My memories of him remain as clear as ever. "We will be reunited in the Halls of Mandos, Valar willing."
"Valar willing," Legolas echoes. "If you are in any state for it, your brother seeks an audience with you."
"Does he? It is my duty, then," I say, shakily getting to my feet. "If you would please grant me privacy for a moment?" I asked, and Legolas at once left the room. Of course he did, no one appears before a king in clothing slept in for two days, lest of all a princess. As I clothe myself more properly, I think of Legolas's words, and try to do as my father would wish.
With care I pull on a full-sleeved under-dress of pure white, donning over it a bright red dress sewn with designs of stars and moons. The sleeves of this dress are unusually inflated and end before my elbow, revealing the underclothes beneath it. Bright clothes seem more fitting to me, in place of garb of gray, common of mourning. My father would not want me to mourn, I think as I quickly brush my short hair.
I step out into the hall and close the door behind me. Legolas has left, mercifully, for I do not wish to see someone now who has so recently seen me so weakened. The corridors are lit well with sunshine, and I smile as I walk down them, seeking my brother. As luck would have it, I am admitted at once to see him. Never before have I observed my brother as King, sitting upon his throne and wearing his crown. Dolor marks him, but he has majesty I have never noticed before.
"My King," I say, kneeling before him. He stands, sets his crown on the throne behind him, and raises me to my feet.
"My sister," He replies, and embraces me warmly, though in a manner more removed than usual of him. "There was something our father left with me to give to you, and now that you have awakened I thought you might want it without delay."
I cannot deny that this is so. To have something that once belonged to my father would be mercy. To have something to remember him by, something I may grasp on lonely nights and know that he is yet with me. Solemnly I nod to Eldarion. He ascends again to the throne which suddenly is in my mind our father's, and brings forth something wrapped in a well-worn piece of grey clothe. At once I know what it is, but could it possible be. . .?
"Keep it well, Aralya. It is best in your hands," Eldarion says, handing the clothe-wrapped item to me. I bow my head in gratitude, and he kisses the top of my head. "A request, if I may?"
"Of course."
"May I see you wield it, just once?" he asks.
"You may," I reply, but do not at once comply. Tenderly I unwrap the clothe, revealing the red sheath I have glimpsed before only on occasions for which I got into very much trouble. My eyes caress the sheath with bereavement, and firmly wrap my fingers around the hilt. With one quick motion I draw the blade forth, Anduril singing in my hands. My heart soars, although wounded, for as I drew the sword I somehow banished any hope that my father might, by some chance, not truly be gone. "Until Mandos," I whisper almost silently, sheathing again the blade.
"Aralya?" Eldarion asks. "Use it." This is an order, not a request. "He would have wanted it. That is why he left it to you, not to me, for I am a diplomat now, a politician. You are a warrior." He clasps my shoulder with his hand, then draws back. "Make him proud."
"Aye, and so must you."
"Come now, you know you had our father's heart," Eldarion replies. "But let us not argue."
"I have now a request to make of you," I say suddenly. "Of my king. I beg your leave to depart from Gondor, for a time. I wish to journey as heroes of old tales. I wish to follow in the footsteps of my father."
Cestari: Well, it was supposed to be sad! It was her father's death! But things will look up, in time.
BrynnAnnalea: Thanks!
JavaGalxy: Thanks! Present tense is almost like. . .it sort of brings the story alive, if done right. If a story is written well in present tense, it is really happening. (Yeah, I'm on a bit of an Alice Hoffman binge)
Tbiris: Thanks!
Sorry this chapter took so long!
*****
I awake two days later, unaware that I have slept for so long, and at first confused as to why my throat is so raw. It all comes flooding back to me with unnerving brutality, and I shoot upright, my breath coming in ragged bursts. Spots appear before my eyes. Suddenly the tears of my sleep are nothing. No grief has been washed from me, nor spilt from my eyes.
I cough-sob like a young child, my throat closing in on itself as I try to be more dignified, and at the same time less saddened. Brushing away my tears with the heels of my hands, I form small circles with my shoulders to loosen them from so much time in repose.
But no matter how much I try to distract myself, I cannot keep from crying out in despair, though my cries are false, mere sob-coughs. Suddenly strong arms are around me, holding me. "Shh, Aralya, it is all right. It is all right to cry."
I keep my hands over my eyes, but lean into Legolas's embrace and allow him to rock me gently. He has always been as a father to me, and in light of recent events I am comforted by the feeling of being someone's daughter. "Please say it is unreal," I beg. "Please tell me he will come home."
I know Legolas wants to tell me this, wants to say that everything will be all right, but he does not. Instead he lifts me so that I am no longer leaning against him, and he says, "I am so sorry, Aralya. You know your father loved you very much, but he had to do what he had to do. Think not harshly of him. He would not wish you the bitterness."
"How could I?" I ask. "I loved him. I am no traitor. I love him still. I just wish he were still here." The idea of having no father has grown in my mind, and I am almost ready to accept it. My memories of him remain as clear as ever. "We will be reunited in the Halls of Mandos, Valar willing."
"Valar willing," Legolas echoes. "If you are in any state for it, your brother seeks an audience with you."
"Does he? It is my duty, then," I say, shakily getting to my feet. "If you would please grant me privacy for a moment?" I asked, and Legolas at once left the room. Of course he did, no one appears before a king in clothing slept in for two days, lest of all a princess. As I clothe myself more properly, I think of Legolas's words, and try to do as my father would wish.
With care I pull on a full-sleeved under-dress of pure white, donning over it a bright red dress sewn with designs of stars and moons. The sleeves of this dress are unusually inflated and end before my elbow, revealing the underclothes beneath it. Bright clothes seem more fitting to me, in place of garb of gray, common of mourning. My father would not want me to mourn, I think as I quickly brush my short hair.
I step out into the hall and close the door behind me. Legolas has left, mercifully, for I do not wish to see someone now who has so recently seen me so weakened. The corridors are lit well with sunshine, and I smile as I walk down them, seeking my brother. As luck would have it, I am admitted at once to see him. Never before have I observed my brother as King, sitting upon his throne and wearing his crown. Dolor marks him, but he has majesty I have never noticed before.
"My King," I say, kneeling before him. He stands, sets his crown on the throne behind him, and raises me to my feet.
"My sister," He replies, and embraces me warmly, though in a manner more removed than usual of him. "There was something our father left with me to give to you, and now that you have awakened I thought you might want it without delay."
I cannot deny that this is so. To have something that once belonged to my father would be mercy. To have something to remember him by, something I may grasp on lonely nights and know that he is yet with me. Solemnly I nod to Eldarion. He ascends again to the throne which suddenly is in my mind our father's, and brings forth something wrapped in a well-worn piece of grey clothe. At once I know what it is, but could it possible be. . .?
"Keep it well, Aralya. It is best in your hands," Eldarion says, handing the clothe-wrapped item to me. I bow my head in gratitude, and he kisses the top of my head. "A request, if I may?"
"Of course."
"May I see you wield it, just once?" he asks.
"You may," I reply, but do not at once comply. Tenderly I unwrap the clothe, revealing the red sheath I have glimpsed before only on occasions for which I got into very much trouble. My eyes caress the sheath with bereavement, and firmly wrap my fingers around the hilt. With one quick motion I draw the blade forth, Anduril singing in my hands. My heart soars, although wounded, for as I drew the sword I somehow banished any hope that my father might, by some chance, not truly be gone. "Until Mandos," I whisper almost silently, sheathing again the blade.
"Aralya?" Eldarion asks. "Use it." This is an order, not a request. "He would have wanted it. That is why he left it to you, not to me, for I am a diplomat now, a politician. You are a warrior." He clasps my shoulder with his hand, then draws back. "Make him proud."
"Aye, and so must you."
"Come now, you know you had our father's heart," Eldarion replies. "But let us not argue."
"I have now a request to make of you," I say suddenly. "Of my king. I beg your leave to depart from Gondor, for a time. I wish to journey as heroes of old tales. I wish to follow in the footsteps of my father."