My Father, My King
A/N: Wow, I did not expect to continue this! There are prolly gonna be two more chapters, or so.
Disclaimer: As usual, I own nothing but my belly, baby Chad.
Chapter Two: Nothing I Can Do
Theoden
is drawing something as I sit by the fire, letting the heat pour over me as I
stretch my aching muscles. He peers at the paper with the utmost concentration,
hardly daring to breathe for fear that exhaling will disturb a pen-stroke. I
shut my eyes, trying to let my thoughts drift, but curiosity overcomes me.
"Theoden?" I call softly. My seven-year-old brother looks up, an expression
of exasperation on his chubby face. He does not deign to reply, only waits for
me to speak, his impatience clear in his large grey-brown eyes.
"What do you draw?" I inquire, forcing myself to stand. I rue my own
inquisitiveness; in truth, after a long day of riding, I would rather do
nothing but sit by the fire for days on end.
He pushes the paper towards me, sighing exaggeratedly. It is a roughly
done, half-finished sketch of a woman, her hair flying in a fierce breeze, her
dress long and floating.
"Who is she?" I ask softly, meeting his eyes. He blushes.
"I thought to draw our mother," he says, so softly I can barely hear him.
"Father always said she was so beautiful, and-" he sighs. "It is a terrible
picture."
"No, no," I hastily reply. "It is wonderful." I can feel a small lump in
the back of my throat. "Do you not remember her?"
He shrugs. "Not really. I dreamt of her once." His eyes take on a far-off,
dreamy look. "She told me that she loved me, and missed me." He looks straight
into my eyes, and I see that there are tears in his. "I miss her, Elfwine."
I sweep him up in a hug, blinking back a few stubborn tears. He makes a
half-hearted noise of protest, but returns my embrace.
"Elfwine," he whispers, and I hold him at arm's length for a moment. He
looks very young and vulnerable, and I am reminded of a night I carried him
into bed, years ago. "Why doesn't father look at me anymore?"
"Oh, Theoden." How am I to answer his query? I have the same question. I
can see it has been troubling him- I know him well enough to know that he
blames himself, at least to some extent. I lean over close, drawing him into my
arms again. "Never, ever think it is your fault."
"But how can it not be?" His voice is plaintive, and it cracks on the last
word- he struggles to master himself.
"When our mother died… part of father died as well," I try to explain,
knowing that whatever I say will never fill the gap in his heart- or, indeed,
in my own. "He has not been himself for years now."
"A dwimmerlaik?" He asks fearfully, his voice a frightened whisper.
I sigh. "Almost, Theoden."
"He looks through me so…it is as though he does not see me at all!" My
brother looks at me pleadingly. "Is there nothing I can do?"
*Nothing I can do…*
"I know of nothing, brother." The words break my heart. There *is* nothing
to do. Father is hardly a man, of late. I sorrow for my brother- he is almost
an orphan, knowing neither mother nor father. My father does not leave his room
except to take audiences with the people every morning- he still does his
duties as King of the Mark well enough- but long has he neglected his youngest
son. I am torn between anger at him and sorrow for him; anger that he cannot
leave the past behind, cannot see Theoden for what he is- and sorrow for his
loss, for I know that he left the better part of his heart at my mother's
graveside.
Theoden looks down, struggling not to break down, not to cry. I ache for
him; he is my only brother, and I know that I would do anything to make him
happy again. But I cannot take my father's place- it was cruel of fate to give
Theoden a father and then take him away.
Suddenly, with a venom swift and sudden as a striking snake, Theoden
snatches up the half-finished picture of my mother and throws it into the fire.
I grab him, and he begins to sob, collapsing against my shoulder. I let him cry
for a few minutes, as he bangs his fists against my back in helpless
frustration. Finally, spent, he sniffles and stands, wiping his eyes. He looks
ashamed of his weakness, and refuses to meet my eyes. I gently lift his
chin until our eyes lock in a moment of wordless sympathy, and in that moment
more passes between us than could ever be said in a thousand years.
"It's not fair, Elfwine," Theoden says, but it is no more than a calm
statement of fact. I feel as though I am being ripped apart from inside. I nod.
"No, it isn't."
He takes a deep breath, squaring his shoulders, and sighs. His eyes look
grey as the stormy sky, as my mother's were.
*Nothing I can do…*
