Disclaimer: See earlier chapters. The hobbits ate the disclaimer for this
chapter.
Lady of Legolas: Sheesh, demanding, aren't you? Just kidding, of course! It's great to hear from you, and I update as often as possible.
*****
The sun taunted Aralya, hanging high and bright, cheerful in the sly above. Birds sang, and dragonflies with translucent wings fluttered about. It was the heat of summer. Lines of heat rose, obscuring any vision of distance, even that of an Elf. In short, the day was perfect.
Aralya wore a dress of pure white. Her frock hung just below the knees, and was very plain, at her insistence. The white color had not been her idea, but it was part of the compromise between her and her father. The sleeves hardly passed her elbows and the neck was mid-long. Aralya's black hair fell in perfect contrast.
A pyre of wood had been formed, and Boromir's body placed upon it. He would not have wanted to be burned, Aralya reflected, he would have preferred to have his body placed in the House of Kings, or, even better, interred in the earth. However, it was custom to incinerate bodies of such circumstances of death, and a thirteen-year-old girl could not compete with ages-old tradition.
As words were said and a fire lit beneath the dead body of Boromir, Aralya wanted to cry. She wished she could, but since the night of the terrible dream she had not been allowed such a luxury. All she could do was stand and watch, as the one she loved above all others went up in flames.
"My brother," she whispered, so quietly that not a single ear perceived. "I loved you so much. Why wasn't I there for you? Why did I bring this pain upon you?"
She drew her dagger from her side. Before she knew what she was doing, or had time to think and stop herself, Aralya dug the blade into her flesh and dragged it across her palm. Blood streamed from the hand. Aralya rubbed the blood onto her perfect white dress, smearing crimson stains onto the white linen in crazy circles.
After a time the pain reached her, or the odd tingling sensation that might otherwise have been pain. Aralya did not care. The portion of her dress that was not red with her blood was small, as far as she could see, and this pleased her. She had destroyed her physical being, and she had destroyed her dress--herself from without. Grief and guilt destroyed her from within.
*****
"My Lady, what happened?" Maya asked as soon as Aralya entered her chambers.
"I do not wish to speak of it," Aralya said, her voice somewhere between grieved and dead. Maya had been Aralya's friend before she was her lady-in- waiting, and their friendship had continued just as much with the position. However, no one could take the place of Boromir in Aralya's heart. Maya could see this, and the offense of Aralya's cold words was minimal.
"You bear your grief well, my lady, some day you shall be a strong queen," Cyra, Aralya's second lady-in-waiting, said. Cyra had not known Aralya before the two had met for employment reasons, but they got on well. Now, however, Aralya turned to Cyra with a face of disbelief.
Without haste or emotion Aralya took her soiled gown from her body, and in her full-body slip she folded the dirtied linen and placed it in a wooden box beneath her bed. After that she looked at the dress on her bed. It was green, as the raiment of Yavanna, who was the mother of all things that grew. "How can I wear the colour of one who brings life, when I can give out naught but death?" Aralya asked in a callous voice
Then she took the green dress and placed it back in her closet. She looked upon the fabric with eyes unseeing. "May I suggest that you wear grey, my lady?" Maya said carefully. "That Estë, who heals the wounded and also costumes herself in this colour, may be summoned to your heart?"
"I will wear not grey, for my body is not broken," spoke Aralya, "but over my heart I shall wear a grey stone, that Estë may know exactly where my hurt is, should she find it within her power to heal me. Thank you, Maya." In her last words was more emotion than she had shown before, although not as much as she usually exploded with.
In place of grey or green Aralya donned a dress of brown. No one would approve of it, she knew. Again she wore a short dress, this one coming to the center of her knees in the back, pleated slightly at the waist. The sleeves were short, so that they did not even fully cover her biceps. The dress had been made when Aralya was a year younger, and she knew it was not meant for her now. She wore it, anyway.
The idea of a funeral party disgusted Aralya. Why should people come together and eat, of all things, when someone they were supposed to have loved had died? Were they wearing masks, only, of sadness?
She did not speak to anyone who did not approach her. Instead she sat in the corner of the room, gripping the edges of her chair, looking around with obscured vision. She tried to occupy her mind, first counting down from one thousand then back up. Nine hundred ninety-four, nine hundred ninety-five--
"Excuse me."
Nine hundred ninety-six--
"Aralya? Princess Aralya?"
No ignoring him now, it was surely she he sought. Nine hundred ninety-seven- -
"I do not mean to interrupt you, but might I speak with you a moment?"
Nine hundred ninety-eight, nine hundred ninety-nine, Aralya's thoughts rushed onwards, one thousand. "Yes?" she said, at last seeing the person before her. He had hair like a mop and soft eyes, not soft but open. "What do you seek?" she asked.
"Well. . .I. . .that is, I knew your father, and I thought perhaps. . ."
Since when did people become speechless around Aralya? She had never known such a thing to happen. "Many people know him," Aralya replied. "He is a King."
"I knew him before that," said the person.
"Really? I did not." Aralya was uninterested, at most.
"Your life does not have to end, simply because you lost someone you loved," he offered.
Aralya was furious. "Do not," she stated, her entire being shaking with anger, "presume to tell me how I feel. Do not presume that you understand what is happening to me. Do not!" Before she could think she acted, pulling back her arm and thrusting I forward. Whomever she had been speaking to, for she knew not his name, fell back in surprise. Aralya jumped up from her chair, tears of surprise, alarm, and a few far darker things springing to her eyes as she tore from the room.
Aralya's feet slammed into the steps as she ran, counting. One-two, one- two, she thought, slam-slam, slam-smash. Top of the staircase, around the corner, down this corridor. . .Aralya did not think as she hurried onwards, in seconds reaching her room and bursting inside. She threw the door closed behind her and curled up in the fetal position on her bed.
"My lady--" Cyra and Maya approached, but Aralya bade them stay back.
"Please leave me be," she whimpered. Cyra was shocked, never having heard her lady so weakened. Maya, however, was familiar with this voice.
"Do as she asks," Maya said quietly, lightly leading Cyra out of the room. Aralya convulsed with sobs on her bed, hating herself for so many reasons.
Meanwhile, Merry, who had received a smack from a girl as he tried to console her, put his hands to his face in pain. There was a murmur and a silence. Merry looked at his palms and saw blood. What sort of a child. . .?
"Meriadoc, I do apologize for her," Elessar said to his friend.
"It is all right," said Merry. As feeling returned to his face, the pain was really a dull ache, despite the bleeding nose. "There is no real injury done. After all, compared to Frodo's I have never been done a real injury in my life!"
"And a good attitude, that is," stated Legolas, who had approached without alerting anyone else. "Aragorn, shall I go and speak with her?" Legolas and Aralya had an almost-kinship, developed in days she could not remember, when Aralya had been just recently born.
"No, Legolas, I think this time I had best go," Elessar replied. "Make sure Merry is indeed unharmed, if you would please." He turned and, with that, strode after his daughter.
Though Aralya had requested to be left alone she could not control the actions of her father. Elessar, though he would not leave Aralya on her own, entered the room gently, and did not speak until he was sitting beside Aralya's curled form on her mattress. "It was hard on you, losing Boromir like that. I know. But you cannot go on acting like this, it is unacceptable."
"I do not care," Aralya replied, her voice itself a sob. "I have nothing left to live for."
"Aralya, listen to me," Elessar said, his voice no longer friendly but one of authority. He knew that she was not listening, and so he lifted her up and forced her to sit. "You have something left to live for. You cannot go on moping like this for the rest of your days. Everyone loses someone, you are not the first nor are you the last."
"Yes, but--"
"This behaviour will stop," Elessar said stiffly. "Tomorrow you will apologize to Meriadoc for bloodying his nose, and you will continue with life as a normal person. Is this completely understood?"
Aralya could do nothing but nod meekly.
"Good. I shall see you in the morning. Pleasant dreams." Elessar stood and left the room, his anger lingering even after he had returned, seen that Meriadoc was indeed fine, and sought Arwen. She was prepared for this, the death of Margate readying her for any other such loss.
"What is it?" Arwen asked, knowing at once that something trouble Elessar.
"Aralya," he admitted. "I was rather harsh with her."
"She must carry on," Arwen replied prophetically. "I have seen Men wander the earth for years after such a loss. Would you have this fate for your daughter?"
"I suppose that I would not," Elessar replied. "Thank you, Arwen."
"'Twas nothing," she assured him, "but hold to your words."
Lady of Legolas: Sheesh, demanding, aren't you? Just kidding, of course! It's great to hear from you, and I update as often as possible.
*****
The sun taunted Aralya, hanging high and bright, cheerful in the sly above. Birds sang, and dragonflies with translucent wings fluttered about. It was the heat of summer. Lines of heat rose, obscuring any vision of distance, even that of an Elf. In short, the day was perfect.
Aralya wore a dress of pure white. Her frock hung just below the knees, and was very plain, at her insistence. The white color had not been her idea, but it was part of the compromise between her and her father. The sleeves hardly passed her elbows and the neck was mid-long. Aralya's black hair fell in perfect contrast.
A pyre of wood had been formed, and Boromir's body placed upon it. He would not have wanted to be burned, Aralya reflected, he would have preferred to have his body placed in the House of Kings, or, even better, interred in the earth. However, it was custom to incinerate bodies of such circumstances of death, and a thirteen-year-old girl could not compete with ages-old tradition.
As words were said and a fire lit beneath the dead body of Boromir, Aralya wanted to cry. She wished she could, but since the night of the terrible dream she had not been allowed such a luxury. All she could do was stand and watch, as the one she loved above all others went up in flames.
"My brother," she whispered, so quietly that not a single ear perceived. "I loved you so much. Why wasn't I there for you? Why did I bring this pain upon you?"
She drew her dagger from her side. Before she knew what she was doing, or had time to think and stop herself, Aralya dug the blade into her flesh and dragged it across her palm. Blood streamed from the hand. Aralya rubbed the blood onto her perfect white dress, smearing crimson stains onto the white linen in crazy circles.
After a time the pain reached her, or the odd tingling sensation that might otherwise have been pain. Aralya did not care. The portion of her dress that was not red with her blood was small, as far as she could see, and this pleased her. She had destroyed her physical being, and she had destroyed her dress--herself from without. Grief and guilt destroyed her from within.
*****
"My Lady, what happened?" Maya asked as soon as Aralya entered her chambers.
"I do not wish to speak of it," Aralya said, her voice somewhere between grieved and dead. Maya had been Aralya's friend before she was her lady-in- waiting, and their friendship had continued just as much with the position. However, no one could take the place of Boromir in Aralya's heart. Maya could see this, and the offense of Aralya's cold words was minimal.
"You bear your grief well, my lady, some day you shall be a strong queen," Cyra, Aralya's second lady-in-waiting, said. Cyra had not known Aralya before the two had met for employment reasons, but they got on well. Now, however, Aralya turned to Cyra with a face of disbelief.
Without haste or emotion Aralya took her soiled gown from her body, and in her full-body slip she folded the dirtied linen and placed it in a wooden box beneath her bed. After that she looked at the dress on her bed. It was green, as the raiment of Yavanna, who was the mother of all things that grew. "How can I wear the colour of one who brings life, when I can give out naught but death?" Aralya asked in a callous voice
Then she took the green dress and placed it back in her closet. She looked upon the fabric with eyes unseeing. "May I suggest that you wear grey, my lady?" Maya said carefully. "That Estë, who heals the wounded and also costumes herself in this colour, may be summoned to your heart?"
"I will wear not grey, for my body is not broken," spoke Aralya, "but over my heart I shall wear a grey stone, that Estë may know exactly where my hurt is, should she find it within her power to heal me. Thank you, Maya." In her last words was more emotion than she had shown before, although not as much as she usually exploded with.
In place of grey or green Aralya donned a dress of brown. No one would approve of it, she knew. Again she wore a short dress, this one coming to the center of her knees in the back, pleated slightly at the waist. The sleeves were short, so that they did not even fully cover her biceps. The dress had been made when Aralya was a year younger, and she knew it was not meant for her now. She wore it, anyway.
The idea of a funeral party disgusted Aralya. Why should people come together and eat, of all things, when someone they were supposed to have loved had died? Were they wearing masks, only, of sadness?
She did not speak to anyone who did not approach her. Instead she sat in the corner of the room, gripping the edges of her chair, looking around with obscured vision. She tried to occupy her mind, first counting down from one thousand then back up. Nine hundred ninety-four, nine hundred ninety-five--
"Excuse me."
Nine hundred ninety-six--
"Aralya? Princess Aralya?"
No ignoring him now, it was surely she he sought. Nine hundred ninety-seven- -
"I do not mean to interrupt you, but might I speak with you a moment?"
Nine hundred ninety-eight, nine hundred ninety-nine, Aralya's thoughts rushed onwards, one thousand. "Yes?" she said, at last seeing the person before her. He had hair like a mop and soft eyes, not soft but open. "What do you seek?" she asked.
"Well. . .I. . .that is, I knew your father, and I thought perhaps. . ."
Since when did people become speechless around Aralya? She had never known such a thing to happen. "Many people know him," Aralya replied. "He is a King."
"I knew him before that," said the person.
"Really? I did not." Aralya was uninterested, at most.
"Your life does not have to end, simply because you lost someone you loved," he offered.
Aralya was furious. "Do not," she stated, her entire being shaking with anger, "presume to tell me how I feel. Do not presume that you understand what is happening to me. Do not!" Before she could think she acted, pulling back her arm and thrusting I forward. Whomever she had been speaking to, for she knew not his name, fell back in surprise. Aralya jumped up from her chair, tears of surprise, alarm, and a few far darker things springing to her eyes as she tore from the room.
Aralya's feet slammed into the steps as she ran, counting. One-two, one- two, she thought, slam-slam, slam-smash. Top of the staircase, around the corner, down this corridor. . .Aralya did not think as she hurried onwards, in seconds reaching her room and bursting inside. She threw the door closed behind her and curled up in the fetal position on her bed.
"My lady--" Cyra and Maya approached, but Aralya bade them stay back.
"Please leave me be," she whimpered. Cyra was shocked, never having heard her lady so weakened. Maya, however, was familiar with this voice.
"Do as she asks," Maya said quietly, lightly leading Cyra out of the room. Aralya convulsed with sobs on her bed, hating herself for so many reasons.
Meanwhile, Merry, who had received a smack from a girl as he tried to console her, put his hands to his face in pain. There was a murmur and a silence. Merry looked at his palms and saw blood. What sort of a child. . .?
"Meriadoc, I do apologize for her," Elessar said to his friend.
"It is all right," said Merry. As feeling returned to his face, the pain was really a dull ache, despite the bleeding nose. "There is no real injury done. After all, compared to Frodo's I have never been done a real injury in my life!"
"And a good attitude, that is," stated Legolas, who had approached without alerting anyone else. "Aragorn, shall I go and speak with her?" Legolas and Aralya had an almost-kinship, developed in days she could not remember, when Aralya had been just recently born.
"No, Legolas, I think this time I had best go," Elessar replied. "Make sure Merry is indeed unharmed, if you would please." He turned and, with that, strode after his daughter.
Though Aralya had requested to be left alone she could not control the actions of her father. Elessar, though he would not leave Aralya on her own, entered the room gently, and did not speak until he was sitting beside Aralya's curled form on her mattress. "It was hard on you, losing Boromir like that. I know. But you cannot go on acting like this, it is unacceptable."
"I do not care," Aralya replied, her voice itself a sob. "I have nothing left to live for."
"Aralya, listen to me," Elessar said, his voice no longer friendly but one of authority. He knew that she was not listening, and so he lifted her up and forced her to sit. "You have something left to live for. You cannot go on moping like this for the rest of your days. Everyone loses someone, you are not the first nor are you the last."
"Yes, but--"
"This behaviour will stop," Elessar said stiffly. "Tomorrow you will apologize to Meriadoc for bloodying his nose, and you will continue with life as a normal person. Is this completely understood?"
Aralya could do nothing but nod meekly.
"Good. I shall see you in the morning. Pleasant dreams." Elessar stood and left the room, his anger lingering even after he had returned, seen that Meriadoc was indeed fine, and sought Arwen. She was prepared for this, the death of Margate readying her for any other such loss.
"What is it?" Arwen asked, knowing at once that something trouble Elessar.
"Aralya," he admitted. "I was rather harsh with her."
"She must carry on," Arwen replied prophetically. "I have seen Men wander the earth for years after such a loss. Would you have this fate for your daughter?"
"I suppose that I would not," Elessar replied. "Thank you, Arwen."
"'Twas nothing," she assured him, "but hold to your words."