Disclaimer: We do not own any of it.
Earth Faery: Well, she was a bit too young for any other names, and couldn't say "Ada" because she is not an Elf. She stops saying "daddy" in this chapter, though.
Person who left the name box blank: That's a sort of complement, I suppose. . .
Kikari: Were you crying? I was, when Gollum put up that chapter. Don't worry, eventually things will get better for Menel.
*****
My eyes remained half-opened, my head lolling to the side. I could see the gray light of the setting sun filtering in through my window. Cold sweat ran down my neck and arms. This was an old nightmare, that time when I asked Mother what "bastard" means. I never did learn. Sometimes I tell myself that it was only a dream, it never happened--but that cannot be so.
People look at me. I see things in their eyes, just like I saw Father's hate from a young age. When Mother looks at me, I see empathy, pity, love-- yes, I am sure Mother loves me, but also shame. I am a badge of shame for her and Father, I can see it in their eyes. Many who see me on the streets, or even servants in my home, look at me with pity, as if they wish they could help but know they cannot. When Queen Arwen looks at me, I feel like she wants to kill me, but also that she pities me. Why all this pity?
It makes me want to scream at times. When I ask people about it, about the big secret I know they're hiding, about the glances of pity, they deny it. Father never got any different around me. He hardly ever touches me, never without shuddering, and I cannot remember a time when he hugged me, except that time he slapped me. When he drinks, I make a point of staying away--I lock the door to my room, I go out for long walks, I visit with Eldarion. I hear them fight, sometimes, always about me. No matter how hard I try to please him, I have come to see, factors I cannot control rule over him.
I look nothing like my father, and that possibly increases his hate of me. To his light brown hair and green eyes, my hair is blonde and my eyes are gray. While he is short I am considered tall, nearly taller than he is. It is difficult to see the relation between us.
Sitting up, I saw through groggy eyes my friend. His dark hair flopped over his gray eyes--the same grey that I see in my in the mirror. A look of concern adorned his face. "Are you all right?" he asked.
"I'm fine," I assured him. "I was just having an old nightmare. How long was I asleep? I'm sorry, it's terribly rude of me--"
"You asked first, remember? I told you it was just fine that you took a nap, you do not need to be formal with me. It's been about an hour. What did you dream of, Menel?" Though he is a few months younger than me--I was born late, he early, so we are quite close in age--he is tall and though I am as well, we are the same height. People sometimes mistake us for twins, and his little twin siblings find this very fascinating.
"Nothing of importance, Eldarion," I told him. He knew I was lying, but turned to watch Aralya, his small sister, who was on the floor reading. She sang softly in Elvish, a language I knew nothing of. "Eldarion, what is. . .what is a mistake?" He understood that I did not mean an accident.
"One of my uncles says that a mistake is something we're too frightened to do on our own, or too unwilling, or too unknowing, but it was meant to happen." His words sounded as if he knew what I spoke of.
"And what. . ." I was nervous now, though comfortable asking Eldarion anything. He knew more than I, as he was far more interested in his studies and his parents did not shelter him as mine did me. "What is a bastard?" I asked quietly.
"A very rude name."
"Is that what it means. . .when a parents says it to a child?"
Deep pity has seeded in the eyes that turn to look at me. "Have your parents called you--"
"No, no!" I lied quickly.
"It means a child, usually a boy, with no father," he whispered, now frightened himself. It is difficult to say exactly what frightened us. Perhaps it was the silence, and perhaps it was the thought of what these things could mean. Either way, both of us trembled.
"Ada!" Eldarion and I were interrupted by Aralya's cry. She jumped up and ran to Aragorn, who had just come in. Aralya hugged him tightly. She was only five years old, the same age as my earliest memories--none of which were anything like that. Aragorn laughed, and knelt so that he could look directly into Aralya's eyes. He always speaks to people like that. "You haven't been to much trouble for Eldarion, have you?"
"I've been just awful!" Aralya said happily. Eldarion was supposed to be looking after Aralya. The two had come with their father, who was discussing some sort of political thing with my father. Aragorn smiled at Aralya. His eyes held some warmth which it seems every father's eyes should hold upon seeing their daughter so gleefully happy. I have never once seen that look in my father's eyes.
"I'm sure you've been a very good girl," Aragorn said, kissing Aralya's forehead. She squirmed, not knowing just how lucky she was that he didn't shudder.
I cried when Eldarion left. It was not because he had gone, indeed I knew I would see him again very soon. I cried for the scene I had witnessed between Aralya and Aragorn. My head buried in a pillow, I sobbed, hiccuping. Crying gracefully is not my forte, although I have cried myself to sleep on countless nights in my life.
From beneath the pillow I held over my head, I heard the door creak open and shut again. Quickly I relaxed my hands and feigned sleep. Who was in my room? I wondered. Whoever it was walked, then stopped and knelt beside the bed. I felt delicate hands move the pillow off my head, and sift through my hair, brushing it away from my face. "Oh, Menel. Are you awake, Menel?" I said nothing.
Mother? What was wrong? I had done nothing wrong, absolutely nothing. Was she all right? She sounded upset. "I wish things could have been better for you," she whispered, thinking I was asleep. "I wish I had not made the mistakes I made back in Rohan. Do not think harshly of me or of him." What did this mean? I had no idea, but was determined to find out. Could the information be found here? Could it only be found in Rohan? It did not matter. I had to know.
*****
Before I had a chance to set out on my quest, or even think it through, it was over. It was the evening after Mother had come to speak to me. I had not left my room, unsure of where to go and what to do. Mostly I slept. As the sun set again, I slipped out as silently as possible to find Father. He was drinking again. My plan was to sneak into his office while he was distracted, but he saw me.
"Menel? Menel, come in. You have no need to be afraid, come," he said, and much as I did not want to, I did. As I approached him I could tell how drunk he was. Slowly, I reminded myself that anything he said was just the alcohol talking. "Do you think I have an active role in your life? Your mother seems to think--"
"Of course you do," I said. I hate myself at times like those. Even though he would be drunk or angry, any time my father called on me to answer I said just what he wanted. Above all else, I wanted his approval. Why was that so difficult for him to give? Why, no matter how much I lied and placated him, did he never seem to see me? "You--you just have other things to do."
"Good, then you understand." He had more to say, but was cut off as Mother entered.
"Menel, run off for a while, will you?" she whispered. I nodded, ducking out the door. However, instead of running off, I stood outside, eavesdropping. "She is suspicious, Faramir, and you know it."
"Then we shall just have to end that suspicion," he answered simply. I was frightened and wanted to turn away, but stayed in petrifying fear.
"What are you implying?" she seemed to know exactly what but not want to believe it.
"Either we will send her away, somewhere far away, or else. . ."
"Faramir!" she gasped. "You mean to kill our daughter?"
"She was never mine, Eowyn. I have felt the shame of her presence for thirteen years, I will have it no longer."
"The child is innocent!" Mother exclaimed.
"Would you die in her place?" he demanded to know. I was shaking. Surely Mother would stand up for me, she would not let this sort of thing go on! When she answered him, her voice sounded strained and weaker than I had ever heard it.
"Send her away."
I turned and ran. My father was once a man of honor, so they say. By they, I mean Mother, Aragorn, and the others old enough to recall. They never say what happened to change that, they never say. I knew then. I had caused the change. I was not his child. He felt deep shame for what Mother had done-- was she my mother? Now he was hardened by drink and emotions unbidden. Who could blame him? I had caused it all. But I did not deserve death for what I had done.
In a park where children often play, I fell to my knees. It was nearly dark, and no one else was there. The usual yelling children had all been called home to their parents. Who were my parents? I had none, I was not a person but a badge of shame. What if I went back? Would Father--Faramir, would Faramir send me away, or would he just kill me?
Finding a sheltered enough area in the thickest bushes, I curled up to sleep.
Was that too. . .something? Too lacking? Too fast? Too melodramatic? Maybe I should re-work it. Any opinions?
Oh, and Gollum, when you write the next chapter, you could write a flash- back, more of her childhood if you want. If not, then it's up to you what she does the next morning. Can't wait for your post!
~Estel
Earth Faery: Well, she was a bit too young for any other names, and couldn't say "Ada" because she is not an Elf. She stops saying "daddy" in this chapter, though.
Person who left the name box blank: That's a sort of complement, I suppose. . .
Kikari: Were you crying? I was, when Gollum put up that chapter. Don't worry, eventually things will get better for Menel.
*****
My eyes remained half-opened, my head lolling to the side. I could see the gray light of the setting sun filtering in through my window. Cold sweat ran down my neck and arms. This was an old nightmare, that time when I asked Mother what "bastard" means. I never did learn. Sometimes I tell myself that it was only a dream, it never happened--but that cannot be so.
People look at me. I see things in their eyes, just like I saw Father's hate from a young age. When Mother looks at me, I see empathy, pity, love-- yes, I am sure Mother loves me, but also shame. I am a badge of shame for her and Father, I can see it in their eyes. Many who see me on the streets, or even servants in my home, look at me with pity, as if they wish they could help but know they cannot. When Queen Arwen looks at me, I feel like she wants to kill me, but also that she pities me. Why all this pity?
It makes me want to scream at times. When I ask people about it, about the big secret I know they're hiding, about the glances of pity, they deny it. Father never got any different around me. He hardly ever touches me, never without shuddering, and I cannot remember a time when he hugged me, except that time he slapped me. When he drinks, I make a point of staying away--I lock the door to my room, I go out for long walks, I visit with Eldarion. I hear them fight, sometimes, always about me. No matter how hard I try to please him, I have come to see, factors I cannot control rule over him.
I look nothing like my father, and that possibly increases his hate of me. To his light brown hair and green eyes, my hair is blonde and my eyes are gray. While he is short I am considered tall, nearly taller than he is. It is difficult to see the relation between us.
Sitting up, I saw through groggy eyes my friend. His dark hair flopped over his gray eyes--the same grey that I see in my in the mirror. A look of concern adorned his face. "Are you all right?" he asked.
"I'm fine," I assured him. "I was just having an old nightmare. How long was I asleep? I'm sorry, it's terribly rude of me--"
"You asked first, remember? I told you it was just fine that you took a nap, you do not need to be formal with me. It's been about an hour. What did you dream of, Menel?" Though he is a few months younger than me--I was born late, he early, so we are quite close in age--he is tall and though I am as well, we are the same height. People sometimes mistake us for twins, and his little twin siblings find this very fascinating.
"Nothing of importance, Eldarion," I told him. He knew I was lying, but turned to watch Aralya, his small sister, who was on the floor reading. She sang softly in Elvish, a language I knew nothing of. "Eldarion, what is. . .what is a mistake?" He understood that I did not mean an accident.
"One of my uncles says that a mistake is something we're too frightened to do on our own, or too unwilling, or too unknowing, but it was meant to happen." His words sounded as if he knew what I spoke of.
"And what. . ." I was nervous now, though comfortable asking Eldarion anything. He knew more than I, as he was far more interested in his studies and his parents did not shelter him as mine did me. "What is a bastard?" I asked quietly.
"A very rude name."
"Is that what it means. . .when a parents says it to a child?"
Deep pity has seeded in the eyes that turn to look at me. "Have your parents called you--"
"No, no!" I lied quickly.
"It means a child, usually a boy, with no father," he whispered, now frightened himself. It is difficult to say exactly what frightened us. Perhaps it was the silence, and perhaps it was the thought of what these things could mean. Either way, both of us trembled.
"Ada!" Eldarion and I were interrupted by Aralya's cry. She jumped up and ran to Aragorn, who had just come in. Aralya hugged him tightly. She was only five years old, the same age as my earliest memories--none of which were anything like that. Aragorn laughed, and knelt so that he could look directly into Aralya's eyes. He always speaks to people like that. "You haven't been to much trouble for Eldarion, have you?"
"I've been just awful!" Aralya said happily. Eldarion was supposed to be looking after Aralya. The two had come with their father, who was discussing some sort of political thing with my father. Aragorn smiled at Aralya. His eyes held some warmth which it seems every father's eyes should hold upon seeing their daughter so gleefully happy. I have never once seen that look in my father's eyes.
"I'm sure you've been a very good girl," Aragorn said, kissing Aralya's forehead. She squirmed, not knowing just how lucky she was that he didn't shudder.
I cried when Eldarion left. It was not because he had gone, indeed I knew I would see him again very soon. I cried for the scene I had witnessed between Aralya and Aragorn. My head buried in a pillow, I sobbed, hiccuping. Crying gracefully is not my forte, although I have cried myself to sleep on countless nights in my life.
From beneath the pillow I held over my head, I heard the door creak open and shut again. Quickly I relaxed my hands and feigned sleep. Who was in my room? I wondered. Whoever it was walked, then stopped and knelt beside the bed. I felt delicate hands move the pillow off my head, and sift through my hair, brushing it away from my face. "Oh, Menel. Are you awake, Menel?" I said nothing.
Mother? What was wrong? I had done nothing wrong, absolutely nothing. Was she all right? She sounded upset. "I wish things could have been better for you," she whispered, thinking I was asleep. "I wish I had not made the mistakes I made back in Rohan. Do not think harshly of me or of him." What did this mean? I had no idea, but was determined to find out. Could the information be found here? Could it only be found in Rohan? It did not matter. I had to know.
*****
Before I had a chance to set out on my quest, or even think it through, it was over. It was the evening after Mother had come to speak to me. I had not left my room, unsure of where to go and what to do. Mostly I slept. As the sun set again, I slipped out as silently as possible to find Father. He was drinking again. My plan was to sneak into his office while he was distracted, but he saw me.
"Menel? Menel, come in. You have no need to be afraid, come," he said, and much as I did not want to, I did. As I approached him I could tell how drunk he was. Slowly, I reminded myself that anything he said was just the alcohol talking. "Do you think I have an active role in your life? Your mother seems to think--"
"Of course you do," I said. I hate myself at times like those. Even though he would be drunk or angry, any time my father called on me to answer I said just what he wanted. Above all else, I wanted his approval. Why was that so difficult for him to give? Why, no matter how much I lied and placated him, did he never seem to see me? "You--you just have other things to do."
"Good, then you understand." He had more to say, but was cut off as Mother entered.
"Menel, run off for a while, will you?" she whispered. I nodded, ducking out the door. However, instead of running off, I stood outside, eavesdropping. "She is suspicious, Faramir, and you know it."
"Then we shall just have to end that suspicion," he answered simply. I was frightened and wanted to turn away, but stayed in petrifying fear.
"What are you implying?" she seemed to know exactly what but not want to believe it.
"Either we will send her away, somewhere far away, or else. . ."
"Faramir!" she gasped. "You mean to kill our daughter?"
"She was never mine, Eowyn. I have felt the shame of her presence for thirteen years, I will have it no longer."
"The child is innocent!" Mother exclaimed.
"Would you die in her place?" he demanded to know. I was shaking. Surely Mother would stand up for me, she would not let this sort of thing go on! When she answered him, her voice sounded strained and weaker than I had ever heard it.
"Send her away."
I turned and ran. My father was once a man of honor, so they say. By they, I mean Mother, Aragorn, and the others old enough to recall. They never say what happened to change that, they never say. I knew then. I had caused the change. I was not his child. He felt deep shame for what Mother had done-- was she my mother? Now he was hardened by drink and emotions unbidden. Who could blame him? I had caused it all. But I did not deserve death for what I had done.
In a park where children often play, I fell to my knees. It was nearly dark, and no one else was there. The usual yelling children had all been called home to their parents. Who were my parents? I had none, I was not a person but a badge of shame. What if I went back? Would Father--Faramir, would Faramir send me away, or would he just kill me?
Finding a sheltered enough area in the thickest bushes, I curled up to sleep.
Was that too. . .something? Too lacking? Too fast? Too melodramatic? Maybe I should re-work it. Any opinions?
Oh, and Gollum, when you write the next chapter, you could write a flash- back, more of her childhood if you want. If not, then it's up to you what she does the next morning. Can't wait for your post!
~Estel