"Yet I confess that I have not kept complete faith with him; I have
fingered things maybe best left tucked away, and unearthed memories
I should not have intruded upon." - Eldarion
Title: Remembrances
Author: Milady Hawke )
Web: www.aniron.info
Live Journal: www(dot)livejournal(dot)com/miladyhawke
Pairing: Aragorn/? Yeah, I know. Big surprise. snort
Rating: PG
Status: 1/1
Disclaimer: Of course I claim nothing but my love for Tolkien.
Archive: Sure, just let me know where.
Feedback: keeps one motivated.
Beta: The magnanimous Menel, who knows these characters so well.
Summary: Eldarion discovers a secret about his father.
Author's note: Eldarion POV. Being slash, it's a rather strange
dedication, but this one's for my Daddy (and also for my departed
Grandpop too) and has been since I got the idea for it. Daddy's not
dead or anything, but of course he can't see it. The note would
also not be complete without mention of Tiniowien, who seems to have
read my mind (or at least my livejournal a few months ago ;) when
it comes to writing this long-neglected trio. And last, but very
definitely not least, I've got to thank my fellow A/L cohort, Bailey,
for her suggestions, first read, and encouragement. Still not happy
with it, but it probably wouldn't have been posted at all (I've been
hiding this for two months) if she hadn't done some much-needed hand-
holding. I am such a wuss.
Remembrances
I doubt anyone ever really knew my father. Of course he was loved
and revered by all, but it seems that most people confused loving
with knowing.
It is true that my parents must have loved each other - for my
childhood was happy and there was nothing to complain of. Never
once did I hear them raise a voice to the other. And of course I
loved them both beyond measure and felt how I was the center of
their world, though I was too young to understand why this was so at
the time, and I never really stopped to think upon it. When they
sent me away to foster with the princes of Ithilien, I cried for
weeks until Uncle Faramir began taking me on the hunt.
And when I returned and was nearly a man, there were times when
Father spoke – but stopped speaking to me. And there were moments
when he thought no one else was looking, when his eyes would unfocus
on some other horizon. He would stare off through the tapestried
walls to some distant time, a place that he kept close to himself
and secret. Sometimes he sang snatches of old tunes to himself, or
smiled at some memory he would rather not share. But these things
never much bothered me until now.
Since the time that my father gave up his spirit and my mother left
us to wander the old paths of her youth, I have not at all wanted to
move into his chambers. I have left them as they were, not a pipe
nor a ring out of place on his dresser, the pile of his state robes
still crumpled in the corner and a pair of leather riding boots
hidden under the bed with mud still caked on the cracking heels. I
could almost imagine his scent lingering in the air. The servants I
will not give leave to enter.
Yet I confess that I have not kept complete faith with him; I have
fingered things maybe best left tucked away, and unearthed memories
I should not have intruded upon. I have looked through his closets,
opened his dressers, handled every little belonging that spoke about
him.
And I found the chest, the rosewood chest, the one in the cabinet
under the casement seat.
Inside were the pieces of a long-stemmed clay pipe, with a roughly-
made bowl that had seen much use. It seemed odd that he kept a
cheap, broken old relic when he had a more valuable smoking
collection.
There was a yellowed old tome, frayed at the edges – and it is hard
to bring myself to speak of this book. Inside it held longing,
secretive poems in a graceful Elven script that was not my mother's
hand. A pressed mallorn leaf fell from one page, so delicate it
would crumble if not handled with care. Words had been scrawled
upon that, too.
There was the broken off tail of an Elvish arrow, with soft
fletching the warm timber of bronze, burnished with red and gold
highlights in the down. Yet this I dismissed as odd and eccentric,
until it was that I emptied the rest of the chest.
The smallest item was the hardest to overlook, a Mithril ring very
much like a wedding band, inscribed in Sindarin with, "To wherever
it may lead."
And there was also a braid, long and golden, that could have
belonged to any prince or princess of renown, if one in particular
had not come to mind.
Perhaps it was that these things pained my father, as they must have
given pain to the one shut away. Or perhaps it was not so much that
Father wanted him buried, so much as he wanted to keep him safe.
If I can catch this lord before his grey ship sails, I shall return
the ring to him and what was dear to Aragorn.
True, I would not believe it at first. And then I was angered.
Yet it is hard to begrudge him, either of them, when I remember from
my youth how the Elf prince once sadly cast his gaze upon me and
told me he wished I could have been his as well.
I would not now doubt my father wished the same. Perhaps it would
have been better were it so.
-fin-