CHAPTER II
"Kings are not born: they are made..."
George Bernard Shaw
PART 1
"...When he would not throw it into the fires, the Elf King spoke, warning Isildur of the Ring's danger." Leaning against the window seat's cushioned wall, Gilraen gently caressed the small head of unruly black hair resting upon her lap. Her powder-blue silk dressing gown had become wrinkled from the child's occasional movements. As the boy valiantly tried to stifle a yawn, the young Queen's full, pink lips curved slightly upward. She knew from long experience how desperate he was to listen through to the end. "But Elendil's heir refused, for he reasoned the small trinket was most precious to him, being the cause of his father's death."
"What did the Elf King do, Mama?" The pouring rain beyond the embrasure nearly drowned out the child's murmured question.
"He road out across the battlefield on a tall white stallion with all his people following in his wake." Brushing back a lock of chocolate colored hair that had strayed from the bun atop her head, she whispered, "They crossed the Misty Mountains from whither they came and disappeared. It is said, that in our time of most desperate need, the Elf King will once more ride..."
"You're not telling the boy that fairytale again, are you Gilraen?" a deep voice chided from the open door.
"Papa!" the boy squealed enthusiastically.
Scrambling of the seat, the small child rushed toward his father. Arathorn laughed as he crossed the spacious bedchambers.
Ginning, he leaned down and swept his son into his arms. "Hello, my wee one."
Huan groaned from his place on the thick, green Rohan rug before the fireplace. The old dog lifted his head but remained sprawled near the warmth the burning wood produced.
"It's his favorite bedtime fable, Arathorn." Carefully lifting the boy's head from her lap, Gilraen stood and grazed her lips across her husband's bearded face.
Outside the palace's cold stonewalls, the storm raged on. The young woman flinched as a streak of pale lightening lit up the night sky. She leaned over the seat and drew the heavy curtains closed. Crossing to the bed, she pulled down the large quilts piled on top. Gilraen lifted all but one of the three pillows and laid them on the rocking chair beside the bedside table.
"Do you think Elves are real, Papa?" He strode across the room and gently settled the boy into the warm blankets.
"I'm afraid not," he ruffled the child's thick hair. Arndor's King leaned over and blew out the candle on the bedside table. "'Tis only a story, Aragorn. Only a story."
PART 2
As Gandalf the Gray walked toward the court's apex, he allowed his appreciative gaze to wander. Sunlight filtered through the Linden boughs hanging over the garden's cobbled path. Here and there, delicate yellow blossoms lay strewn upon the ground. They mingled with a variety of other unique flowering vegetation. Jasmine and Honey Suckle climbed over, under, and up every obstacle in their path. White roses, tulips, and pansies flourished amidst the leaves and rocks upon the ground. The path leading to the garden's center was covered in a large assortment of river-stones in various shapes, sizes, and colors.
In his more than two thousand years of life, he had rarely seen anything so beautiful. The North Garden was Middle-Earth's true immortal, for when all other things grew old and faded away, it would remain, in all its awe inspiring beauty.
The North Garden, or White Garden as it was often called, was Tharbad's oldest. Created in III 1976, a massive White Tree grew at its center. A descendant of Nimloth; which stood in the King's Court in Numenor; the gnarled old tree only produced blossoms as the sun fell beneath the horizon. The tree sat within a raised bed, which was surrounded by large marble blocks. This enclosure not only kept the tree safe, it also allowed wanderers to sit and enjoy the garden's peace.
When he finally stood before the White Tree, Gandalf gazed up into the pale limbs. Curled into a tight ball within the bowl of two branches, hid a small boy. The child's navy-blue tunic and charcoal tights were torn and filthy. Dirt, sticks, and leaves decorated the ruined garments. Partly obscured by dark, straggling locks of hair, his tear stained cheeks were flushed pink.
Rather than embarrass the child, Gandalf simply turned and lowered himself to the marble ledge surrounding the tree. As he waited for the boy to react to his presence, he closed his tired eyes.
"'Tisn't fair," the boy eventually whispered.
"Perhaps not," Gandalf acknowledged. "However, it is for the good of the Kingdom."
Aragorn demanded hoarsely. "Father got to choose, why can't I?"
"Your Father is trying his best to unite Arndor and Rohan." The old wizard had never deceived the young Prince and would not start now. "He is more than your Father, boy. He is first and foremost the King."
His shoulders slumping forward, Aragorn sighed. Finally, the youth glanced up and whispered, "But this is my life, how can he force me to marry someone I don't even know?"
"'Tis only a tentative betrothal, Aragorn. The marriage will not occur for many years to come, for the babe has yet to be born." Gandalf soothed. "Until then, you must prove to your Father that you are capable of making decisions, ones worthy of a king."
The Prince blinked. He wondered if Gandalf were implying that his Father might change his mind if Aragorn could think of a better way. For a long moment, he simply studied the wizards aged features. At last, he murmured, "What do you suggest?"
"Oh, my boy," laughed Gandalf. "I cannot give you the answers you seek. Part of being a king is finding your own answers. It may not always be the most fashionable answer, but it must be the correct one."
"Correct for who?" The boy speculated aloud. "Me or the kingdom?"
"Sometimes you will have to make a choice between the two," The mage rose and turned. Reaching up, he laid a gentle hand on Aragorn's shoulder. "That is where the good kings become separated from the bad. But if you look hard enough, oft there is a satisfying answer for both."
"But how do I know what will make me a good king?"
Gandalf smiled gently. Squeezing the boy's thin shoulder briefly, he let his hand fall away. He thoughtfully gazed up into Aragorn's stormy gray eyes before at last replying. "Whatever will allow you to better protect your people."
As the Wizard left the garden, his words echoed throughout the youth's mind. A king protected his kingdom above all else. His own life, his own happiness must fall by the wayside if it did not better the kingdom. Therefore, Aragorn had to find a way to better himself through his Kingdom's needs.
"Kings are not born: they are made..."
George Bernard Shaw
PART 1
"...When he would not throw it into the fires, the Elf King spoke, warning Isildur of the Ring's danger." Leaning against the window seat's cushioned wall, Gilraen gently caressed the small head of unruly black hair resting upon her lap. Her powder-blue silk dressing gown had become wrinkled from the child's occasional movements. As the boy valiantly tried to stifle a yawn, the young Queen's full, pink lips curved slightly upward. She knew from long experience how desperate he was to listen through to the end. "But Elendil's heir refused, for he reasoned the small trinket was most precious to him, being the cause of his father's death."
"What did the Elf King do, Mama?" The pouring rain beyond the embrasure nearly drowned out the child's murmured question.
"He road out across the battlefield on a tall white stallion with all his people following in his wake." Brushing back a lock of chocolate colored hair that had strayed from the bun atop her head, she whispered, "They crossed the Misty Mountains from whither they came and disappeared. It is said, that in our time of most desperate need, the Elf King will once more ride..."
"You're not telling the boy that fairytale again, are you Gilraen?" a deep voice chided from the open door.
"Papa!" the boy squealed enthusiastically.
Scrambling of the seat, the small child rushed toward his father. Arathorn laughed as he crossed the spacious bedchambers.
Ginning, he leaned down and swept his son into his arms. "Hello, my wee one."
Huan groaned from his place on the thick, green Rohan rug before the fireplace. The old dog lifted his head but remained sprawled near the warmth the burning wood produced.
"It's his favorite bedtime fable, Arathorn." Carefully lifting the boy's head from her lap, Gilraen stood and grazed her lips across her husband's bearded face.
Outside the palace's cold stonewalls, the storm raged on. The young woman flinched as a streak of pale lightening lit up the night sky. She leaned over the seat and drew the heavy curtains closed. Crossing to the bed, she pulled down the large quilts piled on top. Gilraen lifted all but one of the three pillows and laid them on the rocking chair beside the bedside table.
"Do you think Elves are real, Papa?" He strode across the room and gently settled the boy into the warm blankets.
"I'm afraid not," he ruffled the child's thick hair. Arndor's King leaned over and blew out the candle on the bedside table. "'Tis only a story, Aragorn. Only a story."
PART 2
As Gandalf the Gray walked toward the court's apex, he allowed his appreciative gaze to wander. Sunlight filtered through the Linden boughs hanging over the garden's cobbled path. Here and there, delicate yellow blossoms lay strewn upon the ground. They mingled with a variety of other unique flowering vegetation. Jasmine and Honey Suckle climbed over, under, and up every obstacle in their path. White roses, tulips, and pansies flourished amidst the leaves and rocks upon the ground. The path leading to the garden's center was covered in a large assortment of river-stones in various shapes, sizes, and colors.
In his more than two thousand years of life, he had rarely seen anything so beautiful. The North Garden was Middle-Earth's true immortal, for when all other things grew old and faded away, it would remain, in all its awe inspiring beauty.
The North Garden, or White Garden as it was often called, was Tharbad's oldest. Created in III 1976, a massive White Tree grew at its center. A descendant of Nimloth; which stood in the King's Court in Numenor; the gnarled old tree only produced blossoms as the sun fell beneath the horizon. The tree sat within a raised bed, which was surrounded by large marble blocks. This enclosure not only kept the tree safe, it also allowed wanderers to sit and enjoy the garden's peace.
When he finally stood before the White Tree, Gandalf gazed up into the pale limbs. Curled into a tight ball within the bowl of two branches, hid a small boy. The child's navy-blue tunic and charcoal tights were torn and filthy. Dirt, sticks, and leaves decorated the ruined garments. Partly obscured by dark, straggling locks of hair, his tear stained cheeks were flushed pink.
Rather than embarrass the child, Gandalf simply turned and lowered himself to the marble ledge surrounding the tree. As he waited for the boy to react to his presence, he closed his tired eyes.
"'Tisn't fair," the boy eventually whispered.
"Perhaps not," Gandalf acknowledged. "However, it is for the good of the Kingdom."
Aragorn demanded hoarsely. "Father got to choose, why can't I?"
"Your Father is trying his best to unite Arndor and Rohan." The old wizard had never deceived the young Prince and would not start now. "He is more than your Father, boy. He is first and foremost the King."
His shoulders slumping forward, Aragorn sighed. Finally, the youth glanced up and whispered, "But this is my life, how can he force me to marry someone I don't even know?"
"'Tis only a tentative betrothal, Aragorn. The marriage will not occur for many years to come, for the babe has yet to be born." Gandalf soothed. "Until then, you must prove to your Father that you are capable of making decisions, ones worthy of a king."
The Prince blinked. He wondered if Gandalf were implying that his Father might change his mind if Aragorn could think of a better way. For a long moment, he simply studied the wizards aged features. At last, he murmured, "What do you suggest?"
"Oh, my boy," laughed Gandalf. "I cannot give you the answers you seek. Part of being a king is finding your own answers. It may not always be the most fashionable answer, but it must be the correct one."
"Correct for who?" The boy speculated aloud. "Me or the kingdom?"
"Sometimes you will have to make a choice between the two," The mage rose and turned. Reaching up, he laid a gentle hand on Aragorn's shoulder. "That is where the good kings become separated from the bad. But if you look hard enough, oft there is a satisfying answer for both."
"But how do I know what will make me a good king?"
Gandalf smiled gently. Squeezing the boy's thin shoulder briefly, he let his hand fall away. He thoughtfully gazed up into Aragorn's stormy gray eyes before at last replying. "Whatever will allow you to better protect your people."
As the Wizard left the garden, his words echoed throughout the youth's mind. A king protected his kingdom above all else. His own life, his own happiness must fall by the wayside if it did not better the kingdom. Therefore, Aragorn had to find a way to better himself through his Kingdom's needs.