A/N: Sorry, Real Life reared its ugly head and delayed the making of this chapter, but it's here now, so enjoy. Only one chapter to go!
When I was younger, a child still, little over four years, I had a dream. I dreamt of cold waves and fearful screams and of a world plunged into a great darkness. I dreamt of Numenor in its last moments, after the Mighty had forsaken it. I dreamt of the world's ending and a silence that mourned so great a lost of life. I remember waking from these dreams, crying, shaking, gasping for air as though I, myself, was drowning. I remember my father's comforting voice and my mother's warms hands as she wrapped me in her mantle. I remember lying between my mother and father, still in my bed, the orange glow of the fire chasing away the dark shadows of the room, my father's singing in my ears, soft elvish words that left no more for fear, my mother holding me within the folds of soft blue, the light scent of athelas in my nose. I remember being lulled to sleep that night safe between my mother and my father, knowing that no harm would befall me whilst they were with me.
I sit in my father's study, my mother's mantle on my lap and long for that feeling to return.
The hours stretch into endlessness, and I confine myself to my father's study, away from the gathering, nestled in the corner between two bookshelves and the window. A tome rested on the arm of my chair, some random book of elvish lore I knew by heart but read still.
I rested my hands on the soft material in my lap, thinking back to the stories that surrounded it. It had been my grandmother's mantle, an engagement gift from the Steward, a great blue expanse that matched the midsummer night's sky, framed by silver stars at the throat and hem, given to my own mother on the five days after meeting my father. A bit quick for doing away with the heirloom of a person you can barely remember yet love nonetheless.
My father told me once, when his mother wore it, it smelled like rose oil and dried lavender. Now the smell of grass and the healing plant lingers in the fabric, with stray golden strands clinging here and there. My grandmother had raven hair, not unlike my father's hair, and Morwen's and my own. I remember a portrait I saw of my grandmother, hanging in the house of the Stewards in the White City. Pale skin and grey eyes, a thin mouth, an air of sadness that even the portrait painter captured; she was young. And she died. Unhappy, locked away in a glided cage, too close to the growing shadow of Mordor, afraid.
How odd, the woman who left her home for love withered, while the one who looked for little more than freedom flourished.
Once I wondered why her husband would not release her to the sea, now I wonder why love of her sons, if not husband, didn't give her reason enough to remain. I wonder if my father does not wonder the same. Sympathy towards my father and his family is the last thing I wish to feel at the time, and as unbidden as it comes, it remains, and I cannot push it away. 'It all comes back to pity…wretched thing.' I mumble to myself, fingers tracing the worn thread that make up the silver stars.
'Indeed, pity is a terrible thing.' I jump, having not heard the door open, or anyone approach. 'Fine ranger I'll make…'
I stare at the hobbit before me, with his bright eyes and happy grin, the sort of creature that does not let the years stop him, Master Meriadoc Brandybuck stood tall, one hand in his hair, the other holding a mug of ale.
'Should you not be at the party?' I ask before I can stop myself, wanting to be alone.
'I could ask you the same thing; you're the first born after all.' He smiled at me, settling himself on the rug at my feet, it seemed as though the floor was the most popular seat tonight. I arched a brow at him and with a shake of my head, rose from my chair and sat besides the hobbit. He years older than I and still, he looked like a child sitting next to me on the floor. It had always amazed me, that he, Master Holdwine, rather small (yet large among his people), a hero of the War of the Ring. I remember hiding behind my father the first time I saw the hobbit, and he's keen on not letting me forget.
'May I ask why you're hiding here then?'
'I am not hiding.'
'Tucked away in the study while all the rest are in the Hall on the other side of the house…seems like hiding to me lad.'
I stare at Master Meriadoc coolly. 'You're here too. Does that mean you too are hiding?'
He shook his head with a hearty laugh. 'I am only giving your Uncle a chance to calm down.'
I smile, forgetting my former offence. 'I will not ask.'
He nods 'Yes I think it is best you don't' He takes a sip from his mug, offering me some. I decline and lean against the chair I sat in only moments before, the material of my mother's mantle touching the skin of my neck.
'Where were you when the Shadow fell?'
A longer sip and then: 'In my room.'
I nod. 'Did you talk much with my mother or father while in the Houses?'
'I spent more time with your father at first. Asking after Frodo, Sam, Pippin...' he falls silent for a moment. 'He called me to him the first time to ask after your mother. Did you know that?' There's something in the hobbit's eyes that seem almost wistful.
I nod.
'I remember looking out my window and seeing the two of them walking about the gardens. The both of them looking tired and worn, and indeed they both were, but there something, a light almost, that seemed to follow them, when they walked together. Your mother, she seemed, comfortable when she was with him, and your father, he looked at ease.' Master Meriadoc shakes he's head. 'I remember being somewhat taken with your mother, but frightened for her. There was a coldness to her, something that had been present since Dunharrow and sealed after Theoden's death…Quiet, angry, sad, that's what she was then. There was something about your father that seemed to soften her however. I remember hearing her laugh for the first time since Pelennor, and being shaken, it was different. I think that's when I knew there was something there, between the two, something that perhaps neither noticed.' He stops to take another drink and continues. 'After Faramir left the Houses, I spent more time with your mother. She was quiet again. Always fidgeting with that,' he points at the mantle behind me. 'Almost as though she was nervous. She asked me if I had someone waiting for me back home and I told her my family. She cried and I never understood why. I thought perhaps it was because Theoden but I never asked. I believe there are some things that ought not be spoken of, if they don't tell you, then you shouldn't ask.'
I breathe in deeply and think over what Master Meriadoc told me. The coldness around my mother only my father seemed to melt. Was that too part of some act? It seemed impossible somehow.
'Was she happy Master Brandybuck? Did they look happy?'
He smiled up at me.
'I left when the summons came and returned to find m'lady smiling. She looked relieved, like some great weight had been removed. And the weariness in your father's eyes was not so great. She left for Rohan and she seemed almost broken, won't let go of Faramir's hand until she had to.'
Had she dreaded returning to Rohan so strongly she clung to my father as though he were a lifeline?
'I returned to Rohan for the wedding. And your mother looked as beautiful as any elf I'd encountered in my wanderings. There were tears and farewells and she became Gondor's White Lady. But through it all she was happy. Smiling and laughing and dancing. The only other time I ever saw her so happy was when she told me she was with child.' His eyes meet mine. 'Both of them loved you from the moment they knew of you. That hasn't changed, not much will ever change that.'
'She thinks of Rohan and thinks of all the things that have hurt her. She can't remember when she was happy there, though it is the land of her people. She looks here, however and finds memories of those she loves plentiful. She made peace with herself, for the greater part, because I don't think she'll ever fully forgive herself, years ago. Both of them have come to accept the choices they made then.'
I turn toward him, staring in surprise at the things he tells me. The hobbit moves to stand, a little less sure on his feet than he had been upon entering, but still steady.
'Pity is a terrible thing Elboron, as is remorse. It eats away at a person until they're little more then a shell. Here,' he reaches into his pocket and removes a small leather bag. 'Give this to your mother when you see her, on my behalf, if you will.'
He leaves and I sit on the floor thinking over the hobbit's words.
A/NII: Everyone walks out on Elboron…
