What Really Matters
By Earonn
A/N:
This is a belated birthday fic for Vorondis. You know why it comes so late. Happy birthday and may your weapon never fail! :)
Thankies to Ute & Fymhrisfawr for unleashing their beta-balrogs.
"Wrong," the instructor said. "Try it again, young one."
The comment came patiently enough, still there were emotions noticeable. Defeat and disappointment. Emotions the young Elf sensed all too clear, and they hurt him. Because it wasn't his teachers fault to feel like this. He was a good weapon-trainer, one of the best, sent by his great-uncle Finrod Felagund from Nargothrond to teach him and some others the art of war. He taught them patiently and encouragingly, trying his best. No, the defeat was in his voice because he had to accept the fact that he wouldn't make a great sword fighter out of his youngest student. The boy lowered his head, almost crying and followed the order.
"It's enough for today," the elder Elf commanded, clearly sensing that there was no use in any further exercises today. There were students who required training when in this mood and there were those who needed time to recover. And this one was of the latter kind.
Together with his companions the young Elf returned to the high tower of Minas Tirith. None of the others made a jest about his failure. They were friends and he was their Lord's son. Most of all, however, because this was nothing to laugh at. Which made it only worse, of course. Had his failure been less complete, they would have made jokes. If he had only been not extraordinary talented, just as good as many others, they would tease him like they teased each other. But some matters forbade teasing.
He washed, dressed and went up to the library. Time for lectures, he thought somewhat relieved, which he didn't fail in. On the other hand they were given by his father and doubtlessly Orodreth would ask about his progress in sword fighting. A deep sigh escaped the boy's lips.
In the library, among the smell of books and in the golden light of sunlight reflected by old book covers, wooden shelves and parchment, with dust dancing in dry air, he relaxed a little. This was his realm, this was the place where he belonged, not the battlefield.
Wandering through the room he lovingly touched paper and wood, an unconscious smile on his face. To his surprise he found not his father but another Elf bent over the book meant for his present study.
"Greetings, uncle Aegnor," he said politely.
The other Elf turned around. "Greetings, too, Finellach. Back from your weapon training?"
A more detailed answer than a mere affirmation was expected and the young Elf knew it.
"From useless training, yes."
Of all his relatives Aegnor was the one to whom it was most painful to confess this. Aegnor, who fought so valiantly. So powerful in battle, so deft, so skilful – and yet such a friendly and humorous character, loved by all.
"I've heard of it," Aegnor replied with plain sympathy. "There's nothing to do about it, Finellach. Perhaps you just need more time than the others."
"I don't need time and you know it very well," Finellach cut off the remark. "Don't try to fool me – or yourself, uncle." He wasn't really old enough to speak towards his elder relative in such a way but neither he nor Aegnor cared about it.
"Does it help if I tell you that you're better in the arts of the mind than anyone else of your age here at Minas Tirith – and at Nargothrond, at Doriath and, I bet, even at the High King's court?"
A shrug. "Not much. It would help if we were in Aman or if these were peaceful times. But we need swords, not books. Books won't stop an army of orcs."
"Still they are important. For you and for our people."
"I know. But you and father and all the others are both well-read, learned, wise – and good fighters." He looked around. "Father isn't here?"
"No, he has sent me as his most obedient messenger to tell you that other matters prevent him from continuing your lessons today."
A pity. Just right know Finellach would have liked to do something he was good at. Or no pity at all – he wouldn't have to tell Ada about his failure. And the lesson would be given later, as soon as there was time. His father was the Lord of the fortress, this was nothing uncommon to him.
"And why did he send his 'most obedient messenger'?" he asked with a faint smile, eager to ban the unhappy thoughts with a poor joke.
"For no special reason, I think. He's got news and couldn't come, so he asked me if I would tell you. But given the circumstances – do you want to talk about it?"
"Would you mind, if I do not?"
"Of course not, Finellach. But I'd like to help you."
"How?" the young Elf cried. "How do you want to change what even the best sword master cannot remedy? There are things we can do and there are things we can't. And sword fighting is one of the things I won't ever be good at!"
"Oh, I don't deny that, nephew. But what about other weapons? Archery?"
"It's fine. No need to send Beleg Cúthalion a warning about a rival."
"Short knives?"
"The same. I don't like them but I hold my ground."
"Spear?"
"Too early to say. We've made some exercises but I'm not yet strong enough for the real weapons."
Aegnor tilted his head. There was something in his younger relative's voice...
"You don't like them, do you?"
"What do you mean?"
"You don't like your weapons."
Finellach shook his head. "Of course I don't. No one really likes them, not even you."
"That's not what I mean. You," he lightly tipped a finger against Finellach's forehead, "don't really become one with them, you don't know how to learn it. "
"But I do know what they're for and how to learn it," the younger Elf replied, though a bit self-conscious.
"That's not my point. You... It feels like... Oh, were I your father and had his eloquence! Finellach, you... It's not in your heart." He laid a hand on the boy's shoulder, turning the slender body around. "Come on, I would like to try something."
They went down, back to the weaponry. Finellach groaned inside, all he needed at the moment was another lesson in how to face his own inadequacy.
What followed was one of the most painful hours in the young Elf's life. An hour of complete, utter, embarrassing defeat, over and over again. Sword, knives, light bow, strong bow, hand-to-hand combat – they tried everything and to him it seemed as if he failed in everything.
Aegnor felt pity for his young nephew. Such a bright, wonderful boy he was, his whole family's pride. He really didn't want to do this to him. But it was only a prelude, made in the faint hope to find out about something. He watched Finellach's movements, the way he turned, the way he responded to each weapon's demands. He measured the strength of the youth and his lanky body against the faint hope he had.
Last weapon: spears. Carefully Aegnor weighed some training staffs in his hand. No use to try them, Finellach was much too young to wield such a heavy weapon. Aegnor mused for a while. Then he smiled. "Wait a minute!" he said and was gone.
He ran around the tower's base, to the gardens where a shed stood, plain and normally not of interest to a warrior. An Elf-woman knelt outside on a small bed of vegetables, carefully removing some weeds. Looking up to him she asked "How can I be of service, my Lord?"
"I need beanpoles. Two beanpoles."
"Bean- why would you need-" she began and then shook her head. "Just a moment, please." You don't question one of your lords' orders, especially not if this one looks at you with this laughing, beaming expression in his eyes. And no one would deny Aegnor a favour, just as they wouldn't deny it Finrod Felagund. They loved them.
She put her knife into a basket and wiped her hands on her skirt while she went into the shed. Returning, she brought four beanpoles.
"I asked for two," Aegnor said, smiling.
"My Lord, I don't know what you have in mind but I fear, as a gardener I won't like it. Most likely it will be a far cry from what they are made for. They will break, I know it." Now her eyes laughed as much as his.
"I'll try not to break them, or else make you new ones, I promise," he said and bowed before her.
Returning to the training court, he found Finellach wandering around restlessly.
"Here, try this!" Aegnor cried from afar and tossed one of the poles towards his surprised nephew who caught it effortlessly and with a fluent movement.
Finellach eyed the staff suspiciously. "You mean I should try to become a gardener?"
"I mean you should try to wield a spear."
"But I have tried." Finellach moved the staff in a small arch. One end hit the ground. "And this is too long and too heavy, anyway."
He never found out, why his uncle laughed so hard while breaking off a part of the beanpole.
"Better? Now come on, boy, and please don't hurt me too much."
After the worst hour in the young Elf's life came one of the greatest. Oh, he couldn't match his uncle's ability – there were few who could – but it was there. Something he never had felt before, neither with sword or bow, something that made this simple beanpole just feel right in his hands. This wasn't like the boring movements he had to execute with training spears before, just in order to get used to the feeling of them. This was dance, this was learning, this was fun, and it didn't matter at all when he was defeated by a surprising and interesting new blow Aegnor made. Finellach's mind wasn't on fulfilling or not fulfilling expectations, he didn't think about how to move. Uncle Aegnor instructed him and he followed the instructions, it was that easy.
When they finally stopped, breathing hard, he looked at the simple piece of wood in his hands. A beanpole. Something you ram into the earth to support a plant. And yet... He looked to his relative who laughed as he saw the unspoken question in Finellach's eyes.
"Yes, young one. Yes, we'll do it again."
An Elf, several thousand years old, looked down unto the weapon in his hand. A long, black spear, inlaid with mithril, beautiful beyond words and yet deadly to all who had dared to challenge it.
Lovingly the High King of the Noldor let one finger follow the inscription, shining silvery even in the dusty light of Mordor. Then he looked up, took one last free glance around, taking in the land and the air and the sun and his friends, before he turned to face the darkness that loomed only a few paces away, waiting for him.
"You will come to fear the beanpole," he whispered and then all amusement faded and gave way to a deadly determination.
Tol Sirion. Finrod. Nargothrond. His parents and his little sister Finduilas who would have deserved it to become happy with Gwindor. Túrin. Celebrimbor. Aegnor, oh Aegnor, beloved uncle.
"Go away, Elf!"
Fingolfin. Turgon. Gwindor's torment in Angband.
"No."
2nd A/N:
Vorondis, my muse came up with the idea of a gardening elf-woman ere I read that part in your mail, I swear! :)