"...My brothers, I have fulfilled my duty
to God in all good conscience to this day."
-Acts 23:1
There are many emotions in this world, and many which will compel a man to do one thing or another. Love---which in my humble opinion is the strongest of them all---will lead a man to do amazing things for the woman he loves. Hate---a strong emotion as well---can take a man to extreme lengths. Sorrow---that too will drive one mad.
But nothing is worse than the sense of duty.
Nothing will eat away at your mind like duty will. When you know that you must do this or that, and it is your duty to do it, there is no escape. It is the ultimate self-sacrifice; for duty is not done for yourself, it is done for others.
Duty is what drove me to give up music and literature for swords and strategies.
Duty is what compelled me to use every ounce of strength to become the best captain I could, and to live in Ithilien for all those years and fight the enemy.
Duty is what made me face my father after I saw Boromir in the boat and found the broken horn.
Duty is what made me take his curses and abuse whilst my own heart was bleeding to have my brother back.
Duty is what forced me to let the hobbits go, instead of seeing for once the look of pride on my father's face.
Duty is what kept me going when I heard those fateful words telling me that my own father wished I was dead.
Duty is what made me take my soldiers out to try and retake Osgiliath, though I knew it was futile.
Duty is what made me come back to the pain and fear of the living world, though death beckoned to me with it's sweet calls.
And duty is what made me get off the ground and go back to my home in Emyn Arnen.
Truly, it is a cursed word.
But, cursed or not, I was driven by it. I am a slave to my duty, I suppose; I knew my children would need me in this, and, somehow, I must appear strong for them.
But I was not.
And somewhere, a little voice was telling me that I was finally experiencing what my father had gone through. You never understood how he could be so bitter, it whispered, but now you feel the pull of fear and pain at your heart.
When I returned to my home, I was met by the stares of servants. Some were pitying, some were sorrowful, some were shocked and dazed. As I looked at the face of a young girl I passed, I was astonished to see fear. Why should she fear me? Was I that frightening to look at?
I made my way to my room and looked at myself in the glass. Eyes: red; hair: a mess. My clothes were ruined as well. I quickly cleaned myself and changed clothes, then looked around.
What I saw stopped me dead in my tracks; pain like a knife slashing my heart overtook me. Everywhere I looked I saw Éowyn. She was in the covers on the bed; she was in the flowers on the table. She was in the artistically placed cushions and chairs. She was in the dresses hanging in the closet. I buried my face in one and breathed of her sweet and tangy smell like a man who is drinking deeply of water. How could a heart so broken be fixed?
It was not long until I realized I had to get out of there before I was driven mad. Then I remembered.
My children.
The aching for them exploded in my mind, and I was suddenly desperate to see their faces---feel their arms around me. I hurried to the door and flung it open, racing down corridors to get to my children's rooms.
As I approached their doors (Elboron and Feomir slept in the same room and Morwen was right next door) their nurse, Sililian, came out, shaking her head. As she looked up, her face was twisted into a frown.
"Poor things!" she sighed. "And you didn't even think of them! What kind of father do you think you are?"
My head was beginning to ache. This was too much! My wife was dead, and I had forgotten about my children. What kind of father was I? I placed my hand on her arm. "Please, tell me where they are."
"They're all in there, bless their souls. Nobody has even told them!" she replied.
"Nobody what?" I repeated.
"Well, 'tisn't our place!" she snapped. "We didn't think their father would go running off into the blue yonder!" Then she must have seen the agony in my eyes and she quieted her tone. "Ah, but I'm sorry, 'Tisn't your fault. Please, my lord, I am so sorry about this."
I nodded, my throat starting to constrict. "Just stay out of the way for a while," I whispered. I pushed open the nursery door and licked my lips, preparing. No father should ever, ever have to tell his children the news that their mother is dead. As I stepped into the room, a scene from my past flashed across my visage.
Two boys sat huddled on a bed, fear and confusion in their eyes. Shouts had been heard, voices were wailing. What was it all to mean? Where was their mother? Where was their father? The younger looked up at the elder and said gently, "What happened, Boromir? Why are they crying?"
The elder shook his head and wrapped his arms tighter around the small frame of the younger. "I don't know Faramir," he said, "but whatever it is, it's a terrible thing."
Suddenly, the door to the room was flung wide and the boys stared up into the face of their father. The elder rocketed off the bed, crying, "Ada! What's wrong?"
The man looked shocked, and there were rings around his eyes. He lifted the boy in his arms and set him on the bed next to his brother, putting an arm around each. "A terrible thing has just happened, my sons," he began. "You see...your mother, she's, she's..." he trailed off and buried his head in his son's shoulder. The elder patted him.
"It's alright, Ada. You can tell us," he whispered.
The man shook his head and sobbed out, "She's dead!"
I blinked and the scene changed back to the present. I was almost sad that it had...the past was unchangeable, and the future was all too uncertain. I glanced around the room and tried to summon a smile for my children; I failed miserably.
Morwen and Elboron sat on the window-seat, holding hands and looking up at me with big eyes. Feomir huddled in a ball on a chair nearby, his big blue eyes staring into my own gray ones. I gulped. My children needed me now, more than ever they had or probably would. The sheer dependency of them struck a chord in my heart and I knelt and opened my arms.
"Oh my children," I murmured as they hurried into my open arms. How I wished I could hold them forever! And how could I tell them? I knew this needed to be done slowly and delicately. The tears were beginning again in my eyes, and this time I did not stifle them. They dropped onto the bright heads of my children.
Oh Eru, if there's one thing in this world that I can be glad I had at that time---that dreadful time---it is my children. I do not know what would have happened to me if not for those blessed creatures!
Morwen was looking up at me, touching my face with her small hand. She resembled her mother a good deal, but it was not Éowyn's eyes staring up at me. It was my own. "Father?" she asked. "Father, what's wrong?"
It was then that I realized Morwen had never seen me cry before. I think it is a frightening thing, seeing one's father cry. Mothers are different, in their own way. When mother cries, it's distressing, but not terrible. When father cries you know the day has turned black.
I swallowed my tears then (a huge effort, but one I made for the sake of my daughter) and stood slowly, my children still clinging to me. "Come," I said gently, leading them over to a couch. Elboron (at twelve trying his hardest to be a man) sat next to me and crossed his arms. I saw his lip trembling out of the corner of my eye, and wondered just what he was thinking as he saw his father---the manliest of men in his eyes---weeping. Morwen immediately crawled into my lap and put her arms around my neck, and Feomir sat on my other side, leaning his head against my arm. I was silent for a time, stroking Morwen's hair and gathering my thoughts.
"You know," I began, struggling hard to master my own voice, "you know that your mother was ill."
The children nodded, and Feomir clutched my arm. I took a deep breath and went on.
"Sometimes, for no apparent reason, Eru decides it is time to take a person away."
"Take a person away?" Elboron asked.
I nodded. "It doesn't usually make sense to us," I said, "but Eru always has a purpose and plan. We often don't see it..." I trailed off and swallowed, then went on in a rush. "Well, for some reason Eru has decided to take your...your...mother away," I finished.
Dead silence in the room.
I looked around at my three children, trying to discern what their faces displayed. Elboron, usually the leader, spoke first.
"You mean she's, she's..." he began.
"Dead?" Morwen cried. I winced at the word and closed my eyes. "My mother is dead? NO!" For such a little thing, I never would have imagined Morwen could sound so loud. Please, child, I was thinking, do you not think I am going through enough pain as it is? But Morwen was nearly hysterical at this point. I rocked her gently, whispering words that I cannot recall into her ear to calm her. Elboron tried his best too, silent tears streaming down his face.
And through it all Feomir said not one word.
It was not until Morwen had screamed herself to sleep and was hiccuping softly in her bed that I noticed Feomir still seated in the same spot on the couch. I came over to him quickly and put my arms around him.
"She's really gone, isn't she?" he asked quietly. For a five year old, he was quite quick. I nodded.
"Yes, Feomir." I looked down, brushing a bang from his eyes. "You and I, we must bear the most pain, mustn't we?" I said this because I knew what my son was like; he was like me. Elboron and Morwen would both grieve long, but they were like their mother in that respect. Their grief was quick and harsh, coming wildly and sweeping them up with it; gone in a few months or years. They could wail and get it out. Never would they forget their mother, but their grief brought healing.
Our grief brought more pain.
Feomir and I, we could not show our grief and wail as others did. We could not lean upon another's shoulder and sob our heart out until it was clean again. Our agony endured inside.
And so I sat there, holding my son close to me and hoping we could accept the fate Eru had given to us.
Only time would tell.