Disclaimer: All characters and places are property of the Tolkien estate. I am not making any money from this story.
There really is no apology big enough for the delay in this chapter. Real life got on top of me for a few weeks and finding the time to type was nigh-on impossible. However, this story is now all written and the next (and final) chapter will be up sometime next week. That should then be followed by another story (quick plug!) which is another repost, but one that's been heavily revamped.
Many thanks for your patience.
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Estel took a deep breath, trying to calm his nerves. Since seeing Legolas fight the orcs, his respect for the elf had greatly increased. The idea that the prince would now be scrutinising – and most likely criticising – his archery was actually quite intimidating. Especially when Legolas still held himself at a slight distance. It seemed that the camaraderie formed between them on the trip down from the mountains was only a short-lived bond, for relations between the elf and the man were once again merely cordial.
"Is this your own bow?" asked Legolas, inspecting the weapon in question. There was a slight wrinkle on his forehead, as though what he saw did not altogether please him.
"No, it's just one from the armoury," admitted Estel, a shade defensively. "It's the bow I always use, though. I've never really needed my own bow, I prefer to use a sword."
Legolas nodded, apparently not particularly surprised. "All right then, Estel." He looked up and passed the bow to the man. "Let me see how you shoot."
"Five farthings says he hits the tree!" called out Elrohir merrily, before being shushed by his twin. The pair had sat themselves down a little distance away and were watching the proceedings with considerable interest. Legolas looked at them sharply.
"I think Estel can manage without your interjections, thank you."
Elrohir pulled a face, but obediently settled down. Estel flashed a grateful smile at the Mirkwood elf, then took another deep breath as he prepared to shoot. Feet apart, back straight, head up . . . position, draw, fire! Estel watched triumphantly as the arrow landed on the outer ring of the target. Not as good as it could be, perhaps, but by no means a bad shot. He glanced at Legolas, expecting praise. His confidence was misplaced.
"Very well, Estel, let us work out what went wrong. Show me again how you positioned your feet."
Estel stood as he had before, both feet pointing forward in an even position. "This is how I was always taught."
Legolas nodded again. "You would be. It is a popular stance for beginners, but really I would not expect it after a few lessons. It is more difficult to see the target clearly from that position and it is easy to be disrupted by high winds and so on. It is better to have your left foot pointing out slightly, like so." He moved the relevant foot to a 45º angle. "Now nock another arrow. Do you see the contrast in your sightline? That small improvement could make all the difference at a vital moment."
"I see it," agreed Estel, "but it's horribly uncomfortable holding my foot like this. It keeps creeping round again, back to how it was."
"Then you must practice," replied the elf firmly. "The more you use it, the more normal it will seem. Now, try shooting again, maintaining that stance."
The young man sighed and obeyed, taking care to keep his foot at an angle. He was rewarded with an arrow in the inner ring and could not resist smirking at his brothers, who looked astonished.
"Better," said Legolas, "but a long way from perfect. Your draw and follow through is fine, but you lack concentration and focus. You have to block out everything else around you, be entirely centred on your arrow and its target. As far as you are concerned, nothing else should exist. Can you do that?"
It sounded simple enough, if a bit intense. Legolas' eyes were boring into Estel's unsettling him. He cleared his throat and unconsciously stood a little straighter.
"Of course," he answered confidently, taking up his position again. He gazed at the target, trying not to let his mind be distracted by anything. The arrow flying true, keeping its path and landing in the dead centre; this was the only thing that occupied him, any other thoughts swept aside like so much rubbish as he drew the string back and lined up the arrow . . .
"Watch out!" Legolas' loud, panicked shout resounded painfully in Estel's ear, shattering his trance-like state. He instinctively turned towards the elf as he released the arrow and the shot went wide. A moment later a loud squawk was heard from the trees and two indignant rooks rose into the air, chattering angrily. A smattering of applause sounded and Estel turned to glare at the twins, who were almost crying with laughter.
Legolas stepped in front of the human, trying to hide his own amusement. "You see?" he chided gently. "If you had been truly focused, you would have barely registered my shout. I know it is difficult, but you absolutely must detach yourself from the rest of the world."
"Easy for you to say," muttered Estel, feeling every inch the pupil. A thought occurred to him. "What if your shout was real? I mean, if I really did have to look out? Surely then I would be in more danger if I didn't react?"
"I said barely registered, not ignored," countered Legolas. "Had you not drawn your arrow, then I would say yes, your reaction was appropriate. But at that stage of the shot, when you are on the verge of releasing the string, accuracy is the only care you have. You have never seen the chaos of a battlefield, Estel, but you will and I can tell you now that friend and foe mingle freely in the crowds, to the point where it can be impossible to distinguish the two. You are just as likely to hit one as the other and that is why, no matter how urgent or pressing the distraction may be, you can give it no heed until your shot is made. Remember, archery is a form of attack, not defence. If you are at a distance where you can shoot, you are too far away for an enemy to attack you directly. Nothing will be so life threatening as to require your immediate attention. The ability to block out superfluous thoughts is one of the essential skills for a warrior. Now, again."
The elf stood to the side after his long speech and Estel returned to his place, wondering just how Legolas had learnt to "detach himself". To talk to him, anyone would think that the prince spent most of his life in a closed-off cocoon. And as for all this business of seeing a battlefield, well. Rivendell had been peaceful for centuries and even should he ever leave this haven (which wasn't going to happen for a while, after his recent experiences), Estel would not fight in someone else's army. No, he would be free and independent, like the Rangers that sometimes visited, going his own way as he saw fit –
"Estel, have you listened to anything I said? Focus! Or are you perhaps planning to skewer a bird for tonight's dinner?" Legolas' clipped tones sounded across the field and Estel started guiltily, turning back to the task at hand. Position. Sight. Draw. Release. Thwack. The very edge of the centre.
"Again."
Position. Sight. Draw. Release. Thwack. Worse this time, further out.
"Again, quicker."
Estel groaned softly, flexing the muscles in his right hand. It looked to be a long morning.
Lunch was a pleasant affair, with Estel full of pride after having scored three bull's-eyes in a row. Legolas also seemed pleased with the morning's work and with the twins in high spirits, the wine and conversation flowed easily. The only one to dampen the mood was Gilraen, who ate quietly, reacting to the occasional anecdote with a smile that did not quite reach her eyes.
Estel kept an eye on his mother throughout the meal, wondering what could be wrong. Gilraen was generally optimistic and to see her in low spirits was rare indeed. He looked at Elrond, hoping for clues, but the serene elf Lord was giving nothing away.
Eventually the talk around the table died down, as one by one the diners declared themselves too full to eat another morsel. Legolas excused himself, murmuring something about going for a walk, while the twins cleared the plates away before disappearing in the direction of the kitchens. Estel leaned back comfortably, feeling extremely content. This sense of peace was soon replaced by one of unease as Gilraen spoke.
"Estel," she said in a low voice, "Lord Elrond and I would like to speak with you. Lord Elrond, perhaps this would be better discussed in your study?"
The elf nodded, looking grave. "Yes, I think that would be best. Estel?" He rose from the table.
Estel followed suit, nodding in slight bewilderment. What in Arda is going on?
The short walk to Elrond's study was made in silence. Both Gilraen and Elrond seemed reluctant to say anything until they were within the safe confines of the room. Once inside, Elrond motioned Estel to take a seat in front of the desk, before taking up his own position behind it. Gilraen took the seat next to Estel, forming a small triangle with Elrond and her son. She hesitated slightly before speaking.
"Estel, what do you know about your father? Your real father, not Elrond."
Estel looked at her for a moment, unsure of her reasoning. What was she aiming for? Cautiously, he began to recite the facts as he knew them, realising as he did so how sparse his knowledge actually was.
"Well, only what you've told me . . . that he was a carpenter, well-known and liked in the village, but that he was stricken by the plague that forced us out and led us here." He scanned his mother's face, trying to gauge her reaction. What was the purpose of this? He did not remember his father and bar a few questions born of childish curiosity, had never concerned himself with the matter.
Gilraen was leaning forward, her hands twisting together nervously. "That is not quite the truth of it, Estel. I must ask you to forgive me, for I have deliberately misled you. I only hope that you will understand my decision and how hard it was for me to make that choice." She closed her eyes for a moment, gathering her strength.
"Your father was no carpenter, though he enjoyed it as a hobby. Why, for your first birthday he carved you a beautiful little horse, spent hours poring over every detail . . . but that is neither here nor there. What is important is that he was Lord of the Dúnedain and that his name was Arathorn. It was not a lowly plague that took him from this world, but a band of bloodthirsty orcs that no amount of skill could save him from. You are his heir, Aragorn; the blood of kings runs through your veins just as it did in his. I brought you here to keep you safe, for the Darkness is rising again and it will seek you out. But I cannot keep you hidden forever. Elrond believes that you have a great part to play in the fate of Middle Earth, though the details remain unclear. You were born to lead Mankind, Aragorn, to reclaim those rights that your ancestors lost."
Estel sat silently for a moment, trying to absorb his mother's words. "Son of Arathorn? But then, I can trace my bloodline back to Elros . . . back to Isildûr, whose weakness betrayed us all." He looked up, anger beginning to flush his cheeks. "How could you not tell me? You have lied to me, deceived me for eighteen years! How could you do that to your own son? If indeed I am your son – how can I be sure you tell the truth about that?"
"Stop that, Aragorn," said Elrond, intervening. "Your mother acted in your best interests and I will not have you berate her so."
"My name is Estel," replied the young man stubbornly, but Elrond was already shaking his head.
"I gave you the name Estel when you arrived, for you will be Man's hope in dark times to come. But your birth name, by which you will henceforth be known, is Aragorn son of Arathorn."
Estel turned again to his mother, paying no regard to the tears welling in her eyes. "How many others know? Who else has been laughing at me for all these years, taking me for a fool? Do the twins know?"
Elrond answered. "Elladan and Elrohir were good friends of your father's. They were with him in his last moments and you cannot yet know how much hurt his loss caused them." He smiled sadly. "They see much of him in you."
This last revelation cut deeply. Estel trusted his brothers completely and to think that they were part of this great conspiracy upset him greatly. He stood up abruptly. "I don't want to continue this talk," he announced angrily, unshed tears roughening his voice. "How can I believe anything you tell me now? It could all be another pack of lies for all I know!"
Gilraen stood as well, crying openly now. "Do not speak so, Aragorn, I beg of you. Please, I only did what I thought was right!"
Elrond rose calmly to his feet, eyes fixed on Estel. "Hush, Aragorn. What is done is done; you only disgrace yourself by acting like this. You must accept who you are and grow to take pride in it. I had hoped for a more receptive environment in which to give you your presents, but as it is . . ." He began to unwrap the oilcloth from a parcel that Estel had not even noticed was on the desk. Inside lay an ornate ring and fragments of a shattered sword.
"Here is the ring of Barahir," intoned Elrond, "the token of our kinship from afar; and here also are the shards of Narsil. With these you may still do great deeds; for I foretell that the span of your life shall be greater than the measure of men, unless evil befalls you or you fail at the test. But the test will be hard and long."
"I do not want it," scowled Estel. "You cannot tell me my life is a lie and pretend that everything is fine! I want no part of your test, nor your destiny – I know who I am and it is nothing to do with kings or leaders."
"You are mistaken," snapped Elrond. "I gave you a new name, but that cannot change who you are, any more than the sun would dim its light if we called it the moon. This is your ancestry, this is your heritage."
Estel turned on his heel, trying not to look at his treacherous mother. "I have said no, Lord Elrond." He stalked out of the room and down the corridor, narrowly avoiding a head-on collision with the twins.
"And you two! As deceitful as them!" Estel could still not quite believe that everyone he knew had been lying to him all his life.
The twins knew what must have happened and they were quick to react, Elladan offering a placating hand to the young man. "Estel, we acted in your best interests -"
"By lying to me?" asked Estel incredulously. "What would you do if you'd been trying to hurt me? No!" - as Elrohir moved forward – "Don't touch me. I want to be alone." He took off down the corridor, leaving the twins behind to listen to Gilraen's muffled sobs.
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Please review – final chapter will be posted next week.